JEW AV   : 
)AVID 


OMMIS 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  BRONCOS,  and  Other 
Tales  of  New  Mexico.  I2mo.  Illustrated. 
$1.25. 

A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID,  and  Other  Stories 
and  Sketches  of  the  South-West.  I2mo. 
Illustrated.  $1.25. 

A  TRAMP  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT.  I2mo. 
$1.25. 

THE  LAND  OF  POCO  TIEMPO.  8vo.  Illus 
trated.  $2.50. 


THE  AUTHOR  ON  HIS  LONG  WALK. 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID 


AND  OTHER 


Stories  and  Sketches  of  the  Southwest 


BY 

CHARLES  F.   LUMMIS 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 


utfl 

Nfl 

If /a. 


PEEFATOEY  NOTE. 

THESE  true  pictures  of  the  wonderful  and  almost  unknown 
Southwest  are  part  of  the  fruits  of  years  of  residence  and 
study,  and  several  hundreds  of  thousands  of  miles  of  travel 
on  foot,  on  horseback,  and  by  rail,  through  this  strange  land. 
They  are  not  the  impressions  of  a  random  tourist  across  its 
bare,  brown  waste,  but  are  drawn  from  intimacy  with  its 
quaint  peoples,  its  weird  customs,  and  its  dangers.  As  such, 
I  shall  be  glad  if  they  interest  my  young  countrymen,  for 

whom  they  were  drawn. 

C.  F.  L. 


260123 


CONTENTS. 


Flex 

A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID 1 

How  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW 12 

•QUITO'S  NUGGET 25 

THE  ENCHANTED  MESA 39 

A  PUEBLO  RABBIT-HUNT 54 

PABLO  APODACA'S  BEAR 68 

THE  Box  S  ROUND-UP 79 

THE  COMANCHE'S  REVENGE 94 

IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO 101 

LITTLE  LOLITA 116 

THREE  LIVE  WITCHES 123 

HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO 134 

««  OLD  SURELY  " 141 

THE  GALLO  RACE 148 

ON  THE  PAY-STREAK 157 

THE  MIRACLE  OP  SAN  FELIPE 174 

A  NEW  OLD  GAME.... 183 

A  NEW  MEXICAN  HBKO 190 

yii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

From  Photographs  by  the  Author. 

THE  AUTHOR  ON  HIS  LONG  WALK Frontispiece. 

FACE  FAGK 
BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OP  ACOMA,  WITH  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA 

IN  THE  DISTANCE 40 

AT  THE  CHUCK  WAGON 80 

PUTTING  ON  THE  Box  S  BRAND 92 

PUEBLO  WOMEN 116 

THROWING  THE  LASSO  —  THE  AIM,  AND  MANNER  OP  HOLD 
ING  RIATA 138 

RUINS  OF  OLD  CONVENT  AT  SAN  ILDEFONSO 174 

RUINS  OF  THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  TAGS 190 

iz 


A  NEW   MEXICO   DAVID. 


I  DOUBT  very  much  if  Lucario  Montoya  had 
ever  heard  of  that  wonderful  fight  of  long  ago 
between  the  shepherd  stripling  and  Goliath  of  Gath. 
Certainly  he  had  never  read  of  those  things,  for  a 
book  would  have  been  the  most  incomprehensible 
of  mysteries  to  Lucario.  But  in  the  great  and 
wonderful  volume  of  Out-of-Doors  he  was  an  apt 
scholar,  for  in  that  he  had  had  the  most  learned  of 
schoolmasters  —  his  Mexican  father  and  his  Indian 
acquaintances. 

He  could  go  out  into  the  travelled  road  and  read 
from  the  straggling  hieroglyphics  of  the  dust  how 
long  it  had  been  since  the  last  party  passed; 
whether  they  were  Mexicans  or  Indians,  men  or 
women,  travelling  fast  or  slowly,  by  night  or  by 
day.  He  could  not  read  it  half  so  well  as  an 
Indian,  but  he  was  a  famous  trailer  none  the  less. 
In  all  out-door  sports,  too,  that  were  known  then 
and  there,  he  was  an  expert.  When,  on  their 
feast-days,  the  young  men  of  Cebolleta  used  to  bury 
a  rooster  to  its  wattles  in  the  sand,  and  mounting 
their  horses  two  hundred  yards  away  ride  down  in 
a  whirlwind  gallop,  swinging  low  from  the  saddle 

1 


2t  t    ,.    .  A. .NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 


to  pluck  up  that  tiny  mark  as  they  thundered  past, 
it  was  Lucario  oftener  than  any  other  who  swept 
triumphant  down  the  valley  with  half  a  hundred 
recfkless  riders  in  mad  pursuit;  with  shrill  yells 
swinging  that  feathered  club  about  his  head  to 
beat  off  those  who  grappled  him.  Pistols  there 
were  none  in  New  Mexico  in  those  days,  and  of 
guns  only  the  old  Spanish  flintlock  muskets.  But 
with  bow  and  arrows  Lucario  won  many  a  pony 
and  gay  blanket  in  matches  with  the  Navajos  and 
Utes.  With  the  reata  he  was  equally  skilful,  and 
more  than  once  had  lassoed  antelope  in  the  prairies 
along  the  Agua  Azul,  a  feat  of  which  the  most 
practiced  "  roper  "  might  well  feel  proud. 

Above  all,  he  could  throw  the  knife.  It  was  the 
favorite  weapon  of  his  race,  and  one  in  the  deadly 
use  of  which  they  have  never  been  excelled.  Many 
an  Indian  had  bitten  the  dust  in  the  hand-to-hand 
struggles  which  were  then  so  common  between 
the  settlers  and  their  savage  neighbors  —  pierced 
through  and  through  by  the  shining  cuchillo  largo 
of  some  brave  Cebolletan.  Ever  since  his  boyhood 
Lucario  had  practised  throwing  his  knife,  and  now 
from  forty  feet  away  he  could  drive  it  quivering 
two  inches  deep  into  a  foot  circle  of  wood.  With 
the  arm  hanging  at  full  length,  he  placed  the  knife 
point  forward  in  the  open  palm.  Then  he  shoved 
his  arm  suddenly  forward,  with  a  sort  of  scooping 
motion,  and  off  flew  the  glittering  missile. 

All  this  Lucario  was  at  home  in ;  but  if  you  had 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID.  3 

shown  him  a  book,  with  those  funny  little  black 
things  chasing  each  other  across  the  white  paper,  I 
am  sorry  to  say  he  would  have  been  quite  lost. 

Lucario  was  a  shepherd,  and  tended  one  of  the 
flocks  of  Don  Refugio  when  the  Indians  were  suf 
ficiently  quiet  to  admit  of  any  sallying  forth  from 
the  little  walled  town.  Though  known  for  his 
athletic  accomplishments,  he  was  neither  tall  nor 
very  muscular,  but  an  ordinary  lad  of  seventeen, 
who  might  weigh  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds, 
but  making  up  in  wiriness,  skill,  and  agility  what 
he  lacked  in  brute  strength.  His  straight,  jet  hair 
fell  below  his  shoulders ;  his  face  —  just  showing 
a  faint,  dark  fuzz  —  was  thin,  but  with  a  vivid 
red  shining  through  the  olive  skin,  and  his  black 
eyes  were  large  and  wonderfully  bright. 

It  was  in  1840  —  eight  years  before  New  Mexico 
became  part  of  the  United  States.  It  was  then 
the  Province  of  New  Mexico  —  a  colony  of  Old 
Mexico,  and  governed  by  a  Viceroy  sent  thence. 

Of  our  race,  who  arrogate  to  themselves  distinc 
tively  the  name  "  Americans,"  there  were  hardly 
any  in  the  province — perhaps  a  dozen  in  all.  But 
of  the  descendants  of  the  hardy  Spanish  pioneers 
who  became  Americans  long  before  any  English- 
speaking  people  did,  there  were  many  thousands. 
But  they  were  heavily  outnumbered  by  the  In 
dians,  of  whom  there  were  many  powerful  hostile 
tribes.  The  Pueblos,  a  race  of  quiet  farmers  who 
dwelt  in  as  good  houses  as  the  Mexicans  them- 


4  A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 

selves,  had  made  their  last  protest,  more  than  a 
century  before,  against  the  occupancy  of  the  Span 
ish,  and  were  now  excellent  neighbors.  But  the 
Apaches,  the  Navajos,  the  Utes,  the  Piutes,  the 
Uncompahgres,  and  the  Comanches  had  never  been 
conquered,  and  were  incessantly  warring  upon  the 
settlers.  Lucario's  father,  mother,  grandfather, 
great-grandfather,  five  uncles,  two  older  brothers, 
and  I  know  not  how  many  more  distant  relatives, 
had  all  been  killed  by  the  Indians,  and  his  was  by 
no  means  an  unparalleled  case  of  bereavement. 

This  year  the  Utes  had  been  doing  their  cruelest 
work  in  Western  New  Mexico.  They  had  sur 
prised  several  hamlets  and  massacred  all  in  them, 
had  cut  off  many  shepherds,  stolen  many  thousand 
sheep,  and  made  unsuccessful  but  disastrous  as 
saults  upon  Cebolleta  and  other  small  fortified 
towns.  It  had  become  unbearable,  and  the  chief 
men  throughout  New  Mexico  had  met  and  sub 
scribed  money  to  send  out  against  the  Indians  a 
thousand  volunteers  under  the  command  of  the 
brave  Manuel  Chaves.  Lucario's  only  surviving 
uncle — his  father's  eldest  brother  —  was  second  in 
command ;  and  Lucario,  to  his  great  delight,  was 
allowed  to  join  the  expedition. 

The  force  marched  far  northward,  past  the  Ca- 
bezon  ("  Big  Head ")  —  a  strange  peak  of  rock 
apparently  larger  at  the  top  than  at  the  bottom. 
Two  days  later,  they  camped  in  the  plains  below 
the  giant  range  of  Jemez,  having  sighted  a  large 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID.  5 

force  of  Utes  in  the  timber  ahead.  The  New 
Mexicans,  who  were  outnumbered  four  to  one, 
entrenched  themselves  as  best  they  might,  to  await 
the  attack.  The  Utes  came  skimming  about  the 
camp  on  their  fleet  horses,  with  taunting  gestures, 
but  taking  good  care  to  keep  beyond  the  range  of 
the  flintlocks. 

One  gigantic  savage,  mounted  upon  a  large  and 
snow-white  mustang,  made  himself  particularly 
conspicuous.  He  was  plainly  a  chief.  His  buck 
skin  suit  of  soft  black  was  beautifully  fringed,  and 
resplendent  with  silver  buttons.  He  was  fully 
seven  feet  tall,  and  immensely  broad  across  the 
shoulders.  His  horsemanship  was  wonderful,  and 
the  brave  New  Mexicans,  who  could  appreciate 
the  good  points  of  even  an  enemy,  were  lost  in 
admiration. 

"Ah!  Que  guapo!"1  they  cried,  as  he  swept 
past  them  like  the  wind,  now  vaulting  to  his  feet 
in  the  saddle,  now  altogether  disappearing  on  the 
farther  side  of  his  horse,  and  shooting  arrows  at 
them  from  under  the  horse's  neck  with  astonishing 
force  and  accuracy,  and  now  leaping  from  saddle 
to  ground  and  back  from  ground  to  saddle,  all 
without  a  break  in  his  mad  gallop. 

"  Who  dares  come  out  into  the  plain  and  fight 
me  alone  ?  "  he  cried,  suddenly  wheeling  his  horse 
and  riding  broadside  past  them,  not  more  than  a 
hundred  yards  away.  "  If  you  have  any  great 

i  "  What  a  strong,  fine  man ! " 


6  A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 

warrior,  let  him  come.  If  I  kill  him,  you  shall 
go  back  to  your  homes  and  follow  us  no  more. 
But  if  he  kills  me,  then  my  people  will  return  to 
the  country  of  the  Utes,  and  end  the  war." 

There  were  brave  men  in  plenty  among  the  New 
Mexicans,  and  I  doubt  not  that  many  volunteers 
might  have  been  found  to  take  up  the  huge  Ute's 
challenge.  But  before  any  one  else  had  stirred, 
Lucario  ran  to  his  uncle,  who  was  talking  with 
Colonel  Chaves. 

"Uncle,"  he  said,  "I  am  young,  and  the  last 
of  the  family.  Let  me  go  out  to  this  boastful  bar- 
baro  !  If  I  die,  there  are  none  to  mourn ;  but  if  I 
kill  him,  with  the  help  of  San  Esteban,  then  we 
are  relieved  from  war,  and  you  shall  feel  proud 
of  your  brother's  son." 

Don  Jose*  was  a  man  of  rough  exterior,  though 
of  a  good  heart.  Brave  himself,  he  admired  brav 
ery  and  loathed  cowardice. 

"  Go,  then,"  he  said  gruffly,  "  but  look  that  thou 
kill  him !  Come  back  without  his  head,  and  I  will 
kill  thee!" 

"And  if  thou  bring  his  head,"  said  Colonel 
Chaves,  "I  will  make  thee  a  captain  this  very 
day!" 

Lucario  waited  to  hear  no  more.  Running  to 
where  his  pet  pony  Alazan  was  picketed,  he  pulled 
up  the  picket-pin  and  removed  it  from  his  long 
reata  of  braided  horsehair.  Having  taken  all  the 
kinks  out  of  the  rope  and  seen  that  the  noose  would 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID.  7 

run  easily  through  its  loop,  he  coiled  and  hung  it 
upon  his  saddle-bow.  He  loosened  the  heavy  knife 
in  its  sheath,  which  was  sewed  upon  the  side  of  his 
buckskin  breeches,  tested  the  arrows  in  his  quiver 
to  be  sure  that  they  were  all  well  feathered ;  and, 
leaping  lightly  to  the  saddle,  rode  slowly  out  into 
the  plain  with  a  quiet  "  Good  by,  my  friends  !  " 

When  the  Utes  saw  how  small  was  the  horse, 
and  what  a  slender  stripling  its  rider,  they  set  up 
yells  of  derisive  laughter.  The  giant  chief  was  par 
ticularly  merry,  and  rode  down  toward  Lucario 
slowly,  showing  his  large  white  teeth,  and  calling, 
44  Are  there  no  men  among  you,  that  you  send 
out  a  child  to  me  for  a  mouthful  ?  " 

Most  of  the  New  Mexicans  were  somewhat 
familiar  with  the  language  of  the  Utes,  and  Lu 
cario  understood  the  taunt  perfectly.  "Truly,  I 
am  but  a  small  mouthful,"  he  called  back,  "but 
perhaps  a  bitter  one !  We  shall  see." 

When  he  was  within  fifty  yards,  he  sent  a  sud 
den  arrow  whistling  at  his  huge  foe.  The  motion 
was  so  cat-like  and  unexpected  that  the  Ute  had 
scarce  time  to  "  duck  "  to  the  side  of  his  horse,  and 
the  arrow  pierced  his  ear. 

With  a  grunt  of  mingled  astonishment  and 
appreciation  of  the  lad's  skill  the  Indian  drew  his 
own  heavy  bow,  giving  the  string  a  tug  that  would 
have  sent  its  shaft  through  a  buffalo.  But  Lucario 
was  watching,  and  when  the  arrow  came,  it  passed  a 
foot  above  the  saddle,  and  found  nothing  there. 


8  A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 

His  own  second  arrow  merely  grazed  the  Ute's 
horse ;  and  now,  seeing  that  he  had  no  ordinary 
marksman  to  deal  with,  the  Indian  clung  to  his 
horse's  side  and  began  galloping  around  and  around 
Lucario,  shooting  at  him  from  under  the  horse's 
neck,  but  never  exposing  so  much  of  himself  as  a 
whole  hand.  Lucario  adopted  the  same  tactics, 
and  so  skilfully,  that  in  a  few  minutes  each  had 
spent  all  his  arrows,  and  neither  was  more  than 
scratched. 

The  Utes  had  all  ridden  out  from  the  timber, 
and  were  drawn  up  in  an  irregular  line  a  few  hun 
dred  feet  away,  watching  the  curious  fight  with 
intense  interest.  About  as  far  away  on  the  other 
side  were  the  New  Mexicans,  who  had  also 
mounted  to  get  a  better  view. 

Lucario  swung  erect  into  his  saddle.  "With 
the  reata ! "  he  shouted,  uncoiling  his  own  rope, 
and  running  it  rapidly  through  his  hands  till  he 
had  the  long  running-noose  ready  and  trailing 
from  his  right  hand  back  upon  the  ground.  The 
Ute  understood,  and  did  likewise.  Then  they 
went  galloping  around  each  other,  wheeling,  charg 
ing,  dodging,  swinging  the  long  nooses  around 
their  heads,  and  watching  their  chance.  The 
horses  understood  this  game  as  well  as  their  riders, 
and  played  as  important  a  part  in  it.  Both  were 
rough-haired;  but  their  deer-like  legs,  small  fine 
heads,  and  arching  necks  bespoke  their  descent 
from  the  noble  Arab  steeds  brought  here  by  the 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID.  9 

Spanish  Conquistadores  in  1541  —  the  first  horses 
in  America,  and  ancestors  of  all  the  "  wild  horses" 
of  the  plains. 

Lucario  soon  found  this  a  very  different  busi 
ness  from  lassoing  even  antelope.  It  took  all  his 
quickness  of  eye  and  all  his  agility  to  keep  that 
deadly  noose  from  settling  down  over  his  own 
neck.  At  last  the  Indian  let  the  reata  fly  suddenly 
as  he  was  passing,  at  the  same  instant  wheeling  his 
horse  inward  to  gain  the  necessary  distance.  He 
had  calculated  wonderfully  well,  and  the  move 
was  too  quick  for  Lucario,  but  Alazan  had  seen 
it  and  made  a  mighty  sidewise  bound.  The  noose 
swept  across  his  flanks  and  fell  empty  to  the 
ground,  and  Lucario,  as  his  intelligent  horse 
wheeled  back  with  wonderful  rapidity,  dropped 
his  own  rope  deftly  over  the  head  of  the  Indian 
before  the  latter  had  recovered  himself.  Giving 
a  quick  turn  of  the  rope  around  his  saddle-bow, 
the  boy  touched  the  spurs  to  Alazan. 

For  an  instant  it  looked  as  though  he  "had" 
the  Indian,  and  would  unseat  and  drag  him  to 
death,  and  the  New  Mexicans  yelled  exultantly. 
But  the  vast  strength  of  the  Ute,  and  the  quick 
ness  and  superior  weight  of  his  horse,  saved  him. 
Snatching  the  taut  rope  with  his  brawny  arms,  he 
gave  it  a  turn  around  his  saddle-bow,  lifted  the 
relieved  noose  over  his  head,  and  cut  it  with  his 
knife. 

His  face  was  no  longer  smiling,  but  contorted 


10  A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 

with  savage  passions.  He  forgot  his  challenge  to 
a  fair  combat,  and  now  thought  only  of  killing 
this  saucy  boy  and  saving  himself  from  disgrace, 
if  not  death. 

He  began  circling  again  around  Lucario,  all  the 
time  stealthily  edging  nearer  to  his  people.  Sud 
denly  one  of  them  dashed  out  from  the  line  and 
tossed  him  a  long,  sharp  lance.  He  caught  it 
deftly,  and  brandishing  it  aloft  came  charging 
down  upon  Lucario  like  a  thunderbolt. 

For  an  instant  the  boy  was  dumbfounded  by 
this  treachery.  His  arrows  gone,  his  reata  useless 
—  should  he  fly  ?  No  !  He  knew  well  that  his 
stern  uncle  had  meant  every  word;  he  would 
rather  see  him  dead  than  in  flight. 

Ah !  His  knife !  He  whipped  it  from  its  sheath 
and  held  it  down  beside  him,  putting  Alazan  to  a 
gentle  canter  toward  the  Ute.  They  were  not 
more  than  fifteen  yards  apart  —  in  an  instant  the 
shock  must  come.  And  then,  his  big  eyes  shining 
like  coals,  Lucario  rose  suddenly  in  his  stirrups 
with  a  flashing,  overhead  motion  of  his  right  arm, 
and  dug  the  rowels  into  Alazan's  flanks,  twisting 
his  head  sharply  to  the  left. 

The  Ute  giant  swayed  in  his  saddle  and  lurched 
heavily  to  the  ground,  while  his  scared  horse  went 
on  down  the  valley  like  the  wind.  The  New 
Mexicans  dashed  forward,  and  snatching  the  faint 
ing  Lucario  from  his  saddle,  carried  him  into 
camp.  The  Ute  had  hurled  his  heavy  lance  at  the 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID.  11 

same  instant,  and  it  had  passed  through  Lucario's 
arm,  making  a  ghastly  hole.  But  when  they  went 
to  the  fallen  giant,  he  was  quite  dead.  The  boy's 
heavy  knife  had  smitten  him  squarely  between  the 
eyes ;  and  stout  Patricio  had  to  press  his  heel  upon 
the  Ute's  throat  before  he  could  tug  out  the  bedded 
blade. 

According  to  the  compact,  the  Utes  were  already 
galloping  away;  and  it  was  many  months  before 
they  made  another  foray  into  that  portion  of  New 
Mexico. 

Lucario  recovered  from  his  wound,  and  distin 
guished  himself  as  a  captain  in  several  subsequent 
Indian  wars.  He  bade  fair  to  become  one  of  the 
noted  men  of  New  Mexico ;  but  in  January,  1850, 
he  was  among  the  victims  of  that  bloody  night  at 
San  Miguel,  when  the  lurking  Apaches  surprised 
and  massacred  the  flower  of  New  Mexican  soldiery 
—  "  the  Brave  Thirty  of  Cebolleta." 


HOW   I  LOST   MY   SHADOW. 


"  The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Shadow "  in  an  old 
and  well-known  story  was  no  relative  of  mine ; 
but  there  was  a  time  when  I  lost  my  shadow,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  a  much  more  serious  affair  than 
the  mythical  gentleman  of  that  ingenious  story 
suffered.  Surely  no  sun-cast  shadow  was  ever  so 
worthy  to  be  mourned  as  was  the  one  I  lost,  for 
mine  was  faithful  flesh  and  blood. 

It  was  in  the  early  autumn  of  1884  that  I  started 
alone  on  what  was  perhaps  the  longest  pedestrian 
trip  ever  undertaken  for  pure  pleasure,  without 
wager  or  reward  —  a  walk  from  Cincinnati,  Ohio, 
to  Los  Angeles,  California,  by  a  circuitous  route 
which  made  the  entire  length  of  the  journey  thirty- 
five  hundred  and  seven  miles ;  and  occupied  more 
than  one  hundred  and  forty  days. 

Really  to  learn  a  country  and  its  people,  the 
traveller  should  be  on  foot  and  unhurried,  as 
ample  experience  with  bicycle,  horseback,  and  car 
riage  tours  had  long  ago  convinced  me.  It  was  a 
glorious  trip,  always  brimming  with  interest,  fre 
quently  spiced  with  danger,  and  full  of  hardship, 
and  it  has  left  me  some  of  the  brightest  and  some 
of  the  saddest  memories  of  my  life. 
12 


HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  13 

One  crisp  evening  late  in  November  I  came 
down  from  a  rabbit-hunt  in  the  hills  to  the  lonely 
section-house  of  San  Carlos,  a  dozen  miles  south  of 
the  rough  iron  city  of  Pueblo,  Colorado.  The  sec 
tion-men  were  lifting  the  hand-car  from  the  track, 
and  the  welcome  smell  of  supper  was  in  the  air. 
As  I  came  up,  a  tall,  clean-built  young  greyhound 
flew  out  at  me,  and  one  of  the  men  gave  him  a 
savage  curse  and  kick  that  sent  him  away  howling. 

"Whose  dog  is  that?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"Nobody's.  Anybody  's'll  take  him  kin  hev 
him." 

"  I'll  take  him,"  said  I ;  but  it  was  more  easily 
said  than  done.  It  cost  me  two  hours  of  coaxing 
after  supper  to  get  the  poor,  starved  pup  even  to 
snap  a  morsel  from  my  hand  and  fly  again ;  but  at 
last  we  tolled  him  into  the  bunk-house,  shut  the 
door  and  tied  him,  after  a  lively  fight  in  which 
several  of  us  were  slightly  bitten. 

He  was  a  fine  pup,  nearly  full-blooded,  black  as 
a  coal,  thirty  inches  tall,  and  not  over  four  months 
old.  His  owner,  a  well-to-do  but  kinless  contrac 
tor,  had  recently  died,  leaving  the  dog  to  the 
rough  mercies  of  th*1,  section-men,  from  whom  he 
had  never  had  "  a  square  meal "  nor  a  kind  word. 

Next  morning  we  had  another  half-hour  fight 
when  I  tried  to  lead  him  by  a  stout  cord ;  but  at 
last  he  yielded  to  the  inevitable,  and  followed  me 
under  protest,  frequently  jerking  hard  at  the  wrist 
to  which  I  had  tied  his  cord.  That  very  afternoon 


14  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

he  lost  me  a  fine  antelope  buck  by  leaping  aside 
just  as  I  fired,  and  jerking  my  Winchester  so  that 
the  bullet  struck  a  hundred  yards  from  its  aim. 

Three  days  later,  as  we  toiled  up  the  rugged 
vertebrse  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  by  a  trail  a  few 
miles  south  of  the  celebrated  Veta  Pass,  he  was 
tagging  along  so  contentedly  at  my  heels,  and  my 
rifle  and  blankets  so  fully  claimed  my  attention, 
that  I  gave  him  his  liberty.  He  came  crouching 
up  to  me,  still  mindful  of  the  brutalities  he  had 
known  before  we  met,  and  licked  my  hand  appeal- 
ingly.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  shown  affection 
or  seemed  to  enjoy  a  caress,  but  now  he  was 
unmistakably  happy,  though  he  still  "  rejoiced  with 
trembling."  When  I  had  patted  him  and  rose  to 
go  on,  he  fell  dutifully  into  line  at  my  heels  and 
trotted  automatically  there,  never  swerving  save 
now  and  then  to  poke  his  long,  cold  nose  into  my 
swinging  hand,  as  if  to  say,  "  Here  I  am.  Don't 
forget  me ! " 

We  passed  that  night  in  the  log-cabin  of  a  queer 
old  miner  in  Wagon  Creek  Canon,  and  the  dog 
voluntarily  curled  up  against  my  chest,  and  slept 
with  his  nose  thrust  under  my  chin.  Thenceforth 
he  was  really  mine,  and  for  over  fifteen  hundred 
miles  I  had  as  true  a  friend  as  ever  followed,  a 
companion  who  always  thought  my  way  the  best 
way,  who  shared  with  equal  content  my  joys  and 
my  hardships,  never  whined  at  long  marches  and 
short  rations,  and  loved  me  as  only  the  great,  hon- 


HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  15 

est  heart  of  an  intelligent  dog  can  love  his  master. 
It  is  only  in  such  companionship,  too,  that  a  man 
can  fully  appreciate  the  value  of  a  dog's  friendship. 
When  every  day  revealed  to  me  the  selfishness 
and  dishonesty  of  man,  I  learned  to  value  the 
unselfish  loyalty,  the  honor,  of  my  dog. 

Because  of  his  gauntness,  his  color,  and  his  per 
sistence  at  my  heels,  I  named  him  "  Shadow."  He 
was  the  only  shadow  I  ever  knew  that  did  not 
desert  its  owner  when  darkness  came  on. 

A  detailed  story  of  Shadow's  eventful  career 
would  be  a  record  of  the  tramp,  and  would  fill  a 
large  volume.  It  is  only  the  salient  points  in  his 
short,  faithful  life  that  I  can  outline  here. 

It  was  the  very  next  day  after  passing  Wagon 
Creek  that  Shadow  saw  —  so  far  as  I  have  knowl 
edge —  his  first  jack-rabbit.  We  were  pacing 
smartly  down  the  abandoned  government  trail  to 
Fort  Garland,  a  spiteful  snow-squall  driving  in  our 
faces,  when  a  black  streak  shot  past  me  with  a 
funny  yelp. 

There  was  Shadow  flying  frantically  down  the 
smooth  road,  his  straining  nose  perhaps  a  foot  be 
hind  the  heels  of  the  "kangaroo  of  the  West," 
which  loped  along  as  if  troubled  with  rheumatism. 
Finding  his  neighbor  too  attentive,  the  jack  sud 
denly  doubled  to  the  left  into  the  sage,  with  the 
dog  "  a  good  second."  Ah,  what  a  sight  it  was,  as 
the  chase  swept  broadside  by  me  and  off  down  the 
long  slope !  I  watched  with  tingling  blood  and 


16  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

swelling  chest  that  superb  strain  of  fleet,  buoyant, 
dextrous  muscle.  The  jack  seemed  to  be  sailing 
over  the  two-foot  chapparo  like  a  great  bird,  so 
continuously  was  he  in  the  air.  I  could  not  really 
tell  when  he  touched  the  ground  with  those  elastic 
hind  legs,  they  bounced  him  into  sight  again  so 
instantly. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  Shadow  came  limping 
back  very  shamefacedly,  as  if  afraid  I  might  not  be 
aware  that  no  greyhound  of  four  months  could 
run  down  a  full-grown  jack-rabbit. 

He  sat  down  in  front  of  me  and  lifted  one  of  his 
paws  with  a  wistful  little  whine.  No  wonder !  The 
pads  were  pin-cushions  now  —  a-bristle  with  hun 
dreds  of  the  maddening  needles  of  the  nopal,  or 
prickly-pear  cactus,  each  as  painful  as  the  sting  of 
the  bee.  It  took  me  two  solid  hours  to  pick  them 
all  out,  and  he  stood  it  like  a  hero. 

His  reward  came  that  night  in  the  lonely  camp 
of  two  beaver-trappers  on  the  Trincheras,  where  he 
ate  fresh  antelope  meat  until  he  looked  as  if  he 
had  swallowed  a  young  balloon. 

We  tramped  on  down  the  upper  valley  of  the 
blue  Rio  Grande,  vastly  interested  in  the  quaint 
Mormon  and  Mexican  settlements,  and  equally 
prejudiced  against  the  half-score  of  snapping  curs 
—  of  every  degree  of  mongreldom,  and  unanimous 
only  in  ugliness  and  treachery  —  that  swarmed 
about  every  house. 

One  moonlight  night  that  week,  in  a  deep  ravine 


HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  17 

above  Embudo,  Shadow  —  who  had  dropped  well 
behind  —  came  suddenly  bolting  up  between  my 
legs  and  upset  me.  He  had  good  reason  to  seek 
help.  A  hundred  feet  behind  us  came  a  long,  dark 
figure,  crawling  with  that  inimitable,  deadly  grace 
that  only  a  cat  has.  It  was  a  cat  —  the  hugest  cat 
of  the  Western  Hemisphere,  the  "mountain-lion," 
or  cougar  of  the  Rockies.  Terrible  as  it  is  when 
wounded,  the  cougar  does  not  voluntarily  attack 
man,  and  when  I  stood  with  my  rifle  at  a  ready  — 
but  unable  to  see  the  sights  —  and  shouted,  the 
great  brute  made  an  incredible  leap  up  the  side  of 
the  arroyo  and  disappeared  in  the  brush.  All  the 
rest  of  the  walk  Shadow  clung  to  my  side,  and 
when  I  spread  my  blanket  sleeping-bag  in  a  Mexi 
can  hovel  at  Embudo,  he  was  still  shivering. 

Quaint  old  Santa  Fe*,  where  we  lingered  a  week, 
was  the  first  town  Shadow  had  ever  been  in,  and 
he  was  duly  awed.  The  market,  however,  delighted 
him.  The  first  time  we  passed  it  he  seized  a  sus 
pended  rabbit  and  brought  it  to  me  with  a  proud 
air  that  said,  "  Ah,  ha  !  Here  they  have  jacks  that 
I  can  catch,  anyhow  !  "  And  he  was  greatly  puz 
zled  and  pained  to  learn  that  marketed  rabbits 
were  not  fair  prey. 

For  a  fortnight  he  followed  me  faithfully,  but 
with  evident  misgivings,  through  the  mines  of 
Golden  and  San  Pedro.  We  were  now  literally 
inseparable.  If  I  changed  my  chair  in  a  room 
while  he  slept  on  the  floor,  he  must  get  up  and 


18  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

lick  my  hand  before  he  could  continue  his  nap. 
He  seemed  to  be  haunted  by  a  fear  that  the  only 
one  who  had  ever  shown  him  kindness  would 
escape  from  him. 

Going  out  of  Golden  in  two  feet  of  snow,  with 
twenty  miles  to  make  before  dark,  we  waded  labo 
riously  across  the  wooded  hills  —  our  only  guide 
the  trail  of  a  single  horse.  Presently  a  strong 
wind  began  to  dry  and  drift  the  snow,  and  soon 
had  absolutely  obliterated  our  trail. 

It  was  a  fearful  day  we  passed  there,  lost  in  the 
mountains,  floundering  through  the  heavy  snow, 
tumbling  into  drift-hidden  arroyos,  faint  with 
hunger,  expecting  death,  and  kept  up  only  by 
trained  muscles  and  stubborn  will. 

At  last  Shadow  could  go  no  farther,  but  fell, 
howling  dismally,  under  a  spreading  pinon  whose 
piny  branches  partially  averted  the  bitter  storm. 
I  took  him  up  on  my  shoulders  as  one  carries  a 
sheep  —  his  long  legs  on  either  side  my  neck  — 
and  struggled  desperately  on.  Just  as  the  sun 
sank  behind  a  hill  I  saw  a  human  form  in  silhou 
ette  against  the  fiery  disk,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
fell  fainting  across  a  hospitable  threshold  in  San 
Antonito. 

Among  the  rough  mountains  and  lava  beds  of 
Western  New  Mexico  we  found  many  hardships 
and  many  pleasures.  Our  hosts  were  miners,  cow 
boys,  section-men,  Mexicans,  and  Indians ;  our 
food  uncertain ;  our  bed  generally  the  ground  or 


I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  19 

the  snow,  sometimes  the  adobe  paving  of  a  Pueblo 
Indian  house,  or  a  floor  of  American  boards. 

But  our  eyes  were  clear,  our  lungs  drank  glori 
ous  draughts  of  mountain  air,  our  muscles  rejoiced 
in  their  free  play,  and  our  spirits  fairly  bubbled 
over. 

Shadow  kept  me  in  a  daily  roar  by  his  wild 
reaching  after  the  unattainable  rabbit.  The  per 
formance  never  lost  its  humor.  Once  in  a  while 
he  caught  a  cotton-tail  —  the  smaller  rabbit  —  and 
always  came  proudly  to  me  to  share  his  victory. 
Once,  too,  he  overtook  a  prairie-dog  before  it  could 
reach  its  hole.  But  when  those  chisel-teeth  shut 
on  his  nose,  his  appreciation  of  the  joke  faded. 
He  was  "  game,"  however,  and  seizing  his  little 
butter-ball  of  a  foe  again  he  snapped  it  a  dozen 
feet  in  the  air  by  a  quick  jerk  of  his  head,  and  as 
it  came  down  caught  it  with  a  vicious  crunch  that 
settled  the  matter. 

He  came  off  less  happily  with  a  couple  of  coy 
otes  that  kindly  allowed  him  to  catch  up  with 
them  —  and  how  he  wished  he  hadn't !  Very 
effective  teeth  have  these  cowardly  little  wolves 
of  the  plains.  He  was  never  afraid  to  try  conclu 
sions  with  any  one  dog,  and  took  his  defeats  man 
fully  ;  but  when  a  score  jumped  on  him,  as  they 
frequently  did  in  the  Pueblo  towns,  he  would  roll 
over  on  his  back  with  all  four  long  legs  ludicrously 
aloft,  and  fairly  yell  for  help  —  which  you  may  be 
sure  he  always  got.  I  fell  into  some  very  pretty 


20  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

scrapes  by  discouraging  strange  curs  from  lunch 
ing  on  poor  Shadow. 

Just  over  the  line  into  Arizona,  we  were  follow 
ing  a  deer  one  day,  when  the  breaking  of  a  treach 
erous  ledge  dropped  me  twenty  feet  down  a  cliff. 
Shadow  was  watching  me  from  below,  and  I  can 
not  tell  how  he  escaped  being  crushed ;  but  when 
I  recovered  consciousness,  to  find  the  large  bone 
of  my  left  forearm  projecting  through  the  flesh, 
the  poor  dog  was  licking  my  face  plaintively. 

He  watched  me  while  I  set  the  fracture  by  put 
ting  my  canteen-strap  around  my  wrist  and  a  tree, 
and  pulling  the  bone  into  place,  —  there  was  no 
doctor  within  a  hundred  miles,  —  and  while  I 
made  a  rude  splint  of  chapparo  branches;  and 
then  walked  soberly  beside  me  through  all  that 
awful  walk  to  Winslow.  Thereafter  he  was  —  or 
seemed  to  me  —  more  affectionate  than  ever ;  not 
with  the  natural  effusiveness  of  his  puppyhood, 
but  in  a  quiet,  watchful,  unobtrusive  way  that  was 
fairly  human. 

We  trudged  on  and  on,  nearly  the  whole  length 
of  desolate  Arizona,  faring  roughly,  but  finding 
it  easier  to  keep  on  than  to  give  up  to  the  pain. 
We  waded  another  heavy  snow  in  the  noble  San 
Francisco  range,  explored  the  Grand  Canon  of 
the  Colorado,  —  God's  masterpiece  on  this  planet, 
—  and  strode  on  down  the  long  slope  toward  The 
Needles,  where  the  road^crosses  the  Colorado  from 
Arizona  to  California.  We  were  now  in  the  vast 


HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  21 

Colorado  Desert,  where,  even  in  winter,  the  noon 
day  heat  is  fearful,  though  the  nights  are  very 
cold.  It  is  as  true  a  desert  as  the  Sahara  —  a  bar 
ren,  hideous  waste,  broken  by  contorted  ranges  of 
savage  peaks;  thirsty,  forbidding,  deadly.  Hun 
dreds  of  poor  wretches,  straying  too  far  from  water, 
have  left  their  bones  to  bleach  upon  those  blister 
ing  sands. 

We  hugged  the  railroad,  thus  making  sure  of 
water  every  night  and  morning.  But  how  long 
the  days  were,  with  the  one  little  quart  I  was  able 
to  carry  with  my  other  load !  I  shared  it  with 
Shadow  as  if  he  had  been  a  man,  pouring  it  into 
my  hat,  from  which  he  lapped  greedily.  But  he 
was  still  an  impulsive  puppy.  He  could  not  forego 
the  chase  when  an  emaciated  jack  unlimbered  be 
fore  him,  and  he  was  nearly  always  running.  I 
was  walking  over  thirty  miles  a  day,  and  he  must 
have  averaged  at  least  fifty.  Many  a  time  we 
crawled  up  at  night  to  a  water-tank  —  the  water 
being  brought  on  trains  from  great  distances  — 
with  swollen  tongues  projecting  beyond  our  teeth, 
dry  and  rough  as  files. 

We  came  thus  one  evening  to  the  "  station  "  of 
Yucca  —  a  tank  and  two  tiny  shanties  of  shakes. 
I  had  found  the  blanket  too  much  to  carry,  now 
that  my  strongest  arm  was  in  a  sling,  and  had 
shipped  it  home.  Our  only  bed  and  cover  that 
night  were  two  ragged  gunny-sacks  on  the  floor. 
The  chill  night  wind  leaked  through  a  hundred 


22  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

yawning  cracks.  As  usual  now,  I  lay  upon  my 
side,  hugging  Shadow  to  my  stomach  for  mutual 
warmth.  He  acted  strangely  all  night,  groaning 
and  twisting ;  but  I  was  too  tired  to  reflect. 

Next  morning  we  had  travelled  a  couple  of  miles 
down  the  track,  when  Shadow  suddenly  turned 
and  started  back  on  a  run,  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs.  Stupid  with  astonishment,  I  followed 
him  back  to  Yucca.  He  was  lying  in  the  shade  of 
the  tank,  and  growled  when  I  drew  near.  I  took 
off  my  knife-belt,  looped  it  around  his  neck,  and 
began  leading  him.  He  came  along  quietly 
enough,  and  in  a  mile  or  so  I  had  quite  forgotten 
about  him. 

But  suddenly  there  was  a  horrible  snarl,  such  as 
I  never  heard  before  nor  since ;  and  there  was 
Shadow's  face  within  six  inches  of  my  own.  In 
that  awful  instant  his  look  was  burned  upon  my 
memory  forever.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his 
open  jaws  dripped  foam,  his  white  fangs  gleamed 
merciless  in  the  sunshine  as  they  sought  my  throat. 

My  dog  was  mad  ! 

We  were  on  a  long,  high  fill  perhaps  thirty  feet 
above  the  bed  of  a  little  wash.  Instinctively  I 
gave  a  jerk  on  the  strap  and  a  thrust  with  my  foot, 
and  he  went  rolling  down  the  steep  bank.  The 
instant  he  reached  the  bottom,  he  was  up  and 
springing  fiercely  toward  me  again.  I  threw  my 
hand  back  for  my  "  navy  six,"  but  it  had  worked 
around  to  the  middle  of  my  back,  under  the  long, 


HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW.  23 

stiff  duck  coat,  whose  pockets  were  heavy  with 
ores,  petrifactions,  food,  water-bottle,  and  writing- 
materials. 

Before  I  could  even  loosen  it  in  its  scabbard,  he 
was  within  a  yard  of  where  I  stood.  I  put  all  my 
strength  and  all  my  skill  into  one  desperate  kick. 
It  caught  him  glancingly  under  the  chin,  and  rolled 
him  down  the  bank  again ;  and  again  I  tugged  at 
the  heavy  revolver.  He  was  too  quick  for  me,  and 
once  more  I  had  to  throw  him  off  with  my  foot, 
and  down  he  went  again  into  the  bed  of  the  wash. 

As  he  rallied  for  the  third  attack,  I  wrested  the 
six-shooter  loose,  and  levelled  it  at  those  murder 
ous  jaws  —  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams  for  months 
afterwards. 

Thus  far  my  movements  had  been  purely  in 
stinctive —  the  sure,  safe  instinct  Mother  Nature 
teaches  those  who  live  close  enough  to  her  heart. 
There  had  been  no  time  to  think.  But  now  that 
the  grip  of  that  well-tried  weapon  in  my  hand 
brought  its  sense  of  security,  a  wave  of  recollection 
swept  through  me. 

I  was  going  to  kill  Shadow !  To  kill  the  dear, 
faithful  comrade  who  had  shared  so  much  of  suf 
fering  and  danger  with  me !  The  thought  un 
nerved  me ;  and  the  long,  black  muzzle  wavered. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  within  ten  feet  that  the 
strong  instinct  of  self-preservation  came  rushing 
back,  and  I  pulled  the  trigger. 

The  tongue  of  cloudy  flame  seemed  to  lick  his 


24  HOW  I  LOST  MY  SHADOW. 

very  face.  He  tumbled  backward,  and  rolled  over 
and  over  to  the  foot  of  the  bank.  The  heavy  ball 
had  creased  his  head,  and  buried  itself  in  his  flank. 
In  a  second  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  and  fled 
shrieking  toward  the  hills.  I  knew  what  the  des 
ert  was,  I  knew  the  tortures  of  a  gunshot  wound; 
and  the  thought  of  my  poor  dog  dying  by  inches 
the  most  hideous  death  the  mind  can  conceive, 
struck  me  like  a  douche  of  cold  water.  The  trem 
bling  nerves  froze  into  steel. 

I  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  took  a  careful  aim. 
I  must  not  miss  him  —  I  tvould  not !  He  was  now 
a  full  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away,  running 
rapidly  from  me  on  three  legs. 

I  got  his  course,  and  calculated  his  speed.  The 
desert  echoes  rang  again ;  and  poor  Shadow,  whirl 
ing  a  somersault  from  his  own  momentum,  lay  still 
forever. 

With  my  heavy  knife  I  scooped  a  little  grave 
in  the  sand,  under  the  tattered  shade  of  a  yucca 
palm;  piled  lava  bowlders  above  that  quiet  form 
to  cheat  the  prowling  coyote ;  and  then,  un 
ashamed,  stood  wistfully  there  awhile,  with  hot 
tears  dropping  slowly  on  the  thirsty  sand. 

And  to  this  day,  when  I  pass  the  desert,  I  sit 
up  far  into  the  night,  peering  out  the  Pullman 
window  for  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  little  wash 
and  the  blazed  yucca ;  and  there  is  a  strange  burn^ 
ing  in  my  eyes  and  throat  at  the  recollection  ol 
my  parting  with  one  of  the  truest  friends  I  ever 
had  —  the  time  I  lost  my  Shadow ! 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 


A  GREAT  cloud  of  dust  was  drifting  above  the 
twisted  cedars  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Tuerto 
Mountains  one  sunny  August  morning,  nearly  fifty 
years  ago. 

A  brown-faced  woman,  standing  in  the  door  of 
her  adobe  hut  in  the  New  Mexican  mining  camp 
of  Guadalupe,  ten  miles  away,  saw  it,  and  mur 
mured  happily,  "  There  comes  Juan  !  He  will  be 
home  to-night,  and  then  he  has  three  whole  days 
more  to  get  to  Bernalillo  for  the  shearing.  How 
proud  he  will  be  that  Juanito  can  walk  ! "  and  she 
turned  to  set  the  house  in  order,  and  to  make  some 
of  the  sweet  galletitas  that  Juan  liked  so  well. 

It  was  indeed  Juan,  but  he  was  not  kicking  up 
all  that  dust  with  his  own  clumsy,  moccasined  feet. 
Oh  no !  Ten  thousand  sharp  little  hoofs  on  as 
many  slender,  woolly  legs,  were  scuffling  along  be 
hind  him  down  the  dry  mountain-side,  carrying  a 
dense  gray  jam  of  fleeces,  beneath  which  they 
twinkled  like  spokes  in  an  interminable  buggy- 
wheel. 

Juan  was  one  of  the  partidarios  of  Don  Jose* 
Leandro  Perea,  the  great  sheep  king  of  Bernalillo, 

25 


26  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

who  then  owned  two  hundred  thousand  sheep,  and 
was  a  far  more  influential  man  than  the  Spanish 
governor,  for  this  was  before  New  Mexico  belonged 
to  the  United  States. 

In  order  to  save  trouble,  Don  Jos6  used  to  give 
his  sheep  out  "  on  shares "  to  poor  people,  who 
were  called  his  partidarios.  They  took  all  the  ex 
pense  and  care  of  the  flock  during  the  year,  and 
got  half  the  lambs  and  half  the  wool,  but  had  to 
make  up  to  him  any  loss  in  the  original  number. 
Juan  had  been  out  in  the  mountains  away  from 
home  for  three  months,  with  two  half-grown  boys, 
two  big,  shaggy  dogs,  two  solemn  burros,  and  the 
twenty-five  hundred  sheep,  and  now  that  it  was 
almost  time  for  the  fall  shearing,  he  was  going  to 
stay  at  home  a  day  on  his  way  to  the  general  ren 
dezvous. 

He  was  a  small,  withered  fellow,  whose  furrowed 
face  was  half  hidden  by  a  straggly  beard  now  turn 
ing  fast  to  gray.  He  never  would  be  called  "  nice- 
looking,"  but  after  all  there  was  a  kindly  twinkle 
in  his  little,  dark  eyes.  His  rough  clothing  was 
very  ragged  and  dirty,  and  the  heavy  flintlock  he 
carried  was  so  battered  that  there  might  be  some 
doubt  whether  it  would  be  more  dangerous  to  stand 
at  the  muzzle  or  the  breech  of  it. 

The  two  ragged  boys  had  muskets  also,  but 
theirs  were  slung  in  sheepskin  fondas  on  their 
backs,  while  the  old  man  carried  his  in  his  hand. 
They  were  driving  the  flock,  with  the  assistance 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET.  27 

of  the  dogs,  but  Juan  walked  well  ahead,  looking 
sharply  through  the  scattered  trees.  He  had 
crossed  the  fresh  trail  of  four  Indian  ponies  that 
morning,  and  felt  uneasy.  After  fifty  years  in  New 
Mexico,  there  was  little  need  to  tell  him  anything 
of  the  dangers  of  Indian  warfare. 

As  the  flock  wound  round  a  spur  to  a  side-wash 
which  sloped  into  the  canon  by  which  they  were  to 
gain  the  valley,  Juan  stepped  out  to  the  edge  of  the 
low  cliff  and  looked  down. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  he  cried.  "  Los  Comanches  !  " 
and  letting  himself  down  a  little  fissure,  he  crawled 
rapidly  but  carefully  from  rock  to  rock,  until  he 
stood  on  the  smooth,  parched  sward  in  the  bottom 
of  the  canon,  beside  the  object  which  had  elicited 
his  exclamation  of  horror. 

Truly  the  handiwork  of  the  dreaded  Comanches 
was  there.  Two  lean  oxen,  from  one  of  which  a 
great  chunk  of  flesh  had  been  hacked,  lay  across 
the  broken  pole  of  a  clumsy  old  carreta,  whose  two 
wheels  had  been  made  by  sawing  cross-sections 
from  a  huge  sycamore  log. 

A  little  behind,  in  the  rough  road,  lay  the  figure 
of  a  stalwart  man,  with  six  arrows  bristling  in  his 
back.  He  had  evidently  been  walking  at  the  head 
of  the  oxen  when  he  was  shot,  for  one  of  the  pon 
derous  wheels  had  passed  over  him  as  the  fright 
ened  brutes  had  run  a  few  rods  before  they  fell. 
His  broad-brimmed  sombrero  was  off,  showing  that 
he  had  been  scalped.  In  the  rough  cart  a  woman 


28  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

lay  dead  across  a  pile  of  sheepskins,  her  babe  pinned 
to  her  heart  by  one  murderous  arrow.  She,  too, 
had  been  scalped. 

Juan,  with  the  help  of  the  boys  and  their  axe, 
dug  a  shallow  grave,  in  which  he  laid  the  mangled 
bodies.  Then,  while  the  boys  built  up  a  little 
pyramid  of  stones,  Juan  smoothed  two  straight 
pinon  branches,  and  with  a  thong  of  buckskin 
lashed  them  together  in  the  shape  of  a  cross, 
which  he  planted  firmly  among  the  topmost  stones, 
repeating  a  prayer  as  he  did  so. 

Among  the  lonely  ranges  of  New  Mexico  to  this 
day  the  traveller  may  see  hundreds  of  these  little 
stone  cairns,  each  surmounted  by  its  rude  cross.  It 
means  "  Killed  by  Indians.  Pray  for  me ! "  and  each 
devout  native,  as  he  passes  such  a  spot,  will  say  a 
Padre  nuestro,  and  toss  a  stone  upon  the  pile. 

The  boys  were  pushing  their  stupid  wards  for 
ward  again,  and  Juan  was  about  to  follow  them, 
when  his  sharp  eye  detected  a  motion  among  the 
sheepskins  in  the  cart.  He  pulled  away  three  or 
four,  and  there  peeped  out  at  him  a  little,  round, 
dirty  face,  naturally  nut-brown,  but  now  a  sickly 
gray. 

A  moment  later  he  was  holding  a  trembling  boy 
of  four  years  in  his  arms. 

"Whence  comest  thou,  pobrecito?"  asked  the 
old  man,  tenderly;  but  the  boy  could  only  sob, 
"  Los  Indies  !  "  He  did  not  know  whence  he  had 
come,  nor  whither  he  was  going. 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET.  29 

His  name  was  Francisquito ;  no  more.  When 
he  saw  the  Indians  killing  his  tata,  he  had  crawled 
under  the  sheepskins,  and  there  he  had  stayed. 

"  Thou  sayest  the  truth,  Ascencion,"  said  Juan 
to  his  wife  that  night.  "  We  have  already  many 
mouths  to  feed,  and  there  will  be  little  grass  for 
the  sheep  this  winter;  but  I  do  not  think  we 
shall  grow  rich  by  turning  away  this  pobrecito  that 
has  been  sent  to  our  care.  We  will  keep  him." 

So  the  boy  became  one  of  the  crowd  of  young 
sters  that  played  around  the  door,  fetched  leathern 
sacks  of  water  from  the  clear  rivulet  a  few  rods 
away,  gathered  dead  branches  from  the  hillsides 
to  fire  the  big  mud  beehive  of  an  oven  outside  the 
house,  where  Ascencion  baked  bread  and  roasted 
chili,  and  made  themselves  generally  helpful. 

Mexican  boys  and  girls  are  useful  almost  from 
the  time  they  begin  to  walk,  and  they  do  not  seem 
to  find  toil  a  kill-joy.  On  the  contrary,  I  doubt  if 
any  children  in  the  world  enjoy  life  more  thor 
oughly.  They  know  nothing  whatever  about  books, 
or  toys,  or  cities,  but  they  play  with  Mother  Nature, 
and  love  her  well.  In  practical  self-reliance,  a 
barefoot  paisano  boy  of  twelve  is  ahead  of  very 
many  grown  men  in  the  cities.  To  sleep  alone 
out  among  the  mountains,  to  ride  wild  and  vicious 
horses,  and  to  take  care  of  themselves  pretty  cleverly 
under  almost  any  circumstances,  —  these  are  things 
which  New  Mexican  boys  do  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  out-door  life,  the  hardships  and  the  responsi- 


30  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

bilities  to  which  they  are  trained,  make  them  sturdy 
and  self-reliant. 

The  years  crawled  along  slowly  in  quiet  Guada- 
lupe.  Francisquito  grew  larger  and  stronger  than 
any  of  his  foster-brothers.  Juan  and  Ascencion 
had  come  to  love  him  as  their  own,  and  called  him 
by  the  affectionate  abbreviation  "  'Quito,"  by  which 
he  soon  became  known  to  every  one. 

Ascencion  would  not  have  known  what  to  do 
without  him,  for  he  was  more  help  about  the  house 
than  all  her  own  boys.  He  was  more  thoughtful, 
more  affectionate,  but  more  quiet  —  not  dull  nor 
slow,  but  "  older  for  his  age  "  —  than  the  others. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  his  childishness  that  awful 
morning  in  Tuerto  Canon. 

When  there  was  no  more  to  be  done  at  home, 
'Quito  liked  best  to  stroll  a  mile  up  the  hilly  road 
to  the  placers,  where  hundreds  of  Mexican  miners 
were  delving  away  for  the  precious  flakes  of  gold. 
On  a  broad,  gentle  slope  of  the  mountain's  flank 
were  scores  of  well-like  holes  which  ran  down 
through  the  gravel  to  the  underlying  bed-rock 
twenty  to  forty  feet  below.  Over  these  holes  were 
rude  windlasses  by  which  the  miners  let  themselves 
down  to  "  gopher-out "  the  rich  "  pay-dirt "  along 
the  bed-rock,  and  by  which  they  sent  the  gravel 
up  in  leathern  buckets,  to  be  "washed  out"  in 
broad  wooden  bowls. 

'Quito  loved  to  watch  the  men  rotating  these 
bowls  in  little  clay-lined  puddles  of  water,  with 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET.  31 

a  dextrous  motion  that  gradually  swept  out  the 
gravel,  and  left  the  heavier  yellow  particles  of  gold 
in  shining  procession  along  the  bottom  of  the  bowl. 
And  when  one  of  those  rough-looking  fellows 
would  say,  "Wouldst  thou  like  a  'prospect,' 
'Quito  ?  "  and  give  him  a  panful  of  that  fascinat 
ing  gravel  to  wash  out  for  himself,  he  was  as 
happy  as  a  boy  could  be. 

He  got  in  time  so  that  he  could  tilt  the  pan  as 
deftly  as  need  be,  and  save  nearly  every  tiny 
golden  grain.  Once  in  a  while  he  found  a  little 
nugget  of  perhaps  half  a  dollar's  value.  What 
ever  showed  up  in  the  pan  was  his,  and  in  a  little 
rawhide  bottle  he  had  made,  with  a  clumsy  wooden 
stopper,  he  carried  home  his  small  treasures  and 
gave  them  always  to  Ascencion.  New  Mexican 
boys  knew  nothing  of  pocket>-money,  and  'Quito 
would  have  found  little  chance  to  spend  it  if  he 
had  kept  what  he  found. 

When  'Quito  was  ten  years  old,  Juan  took  him 
out  with  the  sheep  after  the  September  shearing. 
The  next  few  months  he  spent  guiding  the  stupid 
flock  to  the  best  grass  and  water,  and  bringing 
them  down  once  a  month  to  the  river  to  eat  alkali, 
getting  up  at  all  hours  of  night  to  drive  off  the 
coyotes  or  to  rally  the  flock,  scattered  for  miles  by 
some  fearful  storm. 

In  all  that  time  he  did  not  see  a  house,  nor  take 
off  his  clothes  at  night.  His  bed  was  one  heavy 
Navajo  blanket,  spread  on  the  ground  or  the  snow 


32  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

close  by  the  camp-fire  around  which  the  sheep  lay 
in  a  white  huddle.  His  food  was  boiled  beans, 
roasted  sheep-ribs,  and  tortillas.  But  'Quito  did 
not  complain.  He  was  helping  Juan,  and  that 
kept  him  content. 

But  one  sad  day  the  old  man  slipped  on  the  icy 
rocks  and  fell.  His  leg  was  broken  at  the  hip, 
and  he  would  be  a  cripple  for  life.  The  boys 
lifted  him  upon  one  of  the  burros  which  carried 
their  blankets  and  food;  and  'Quito  led  it  care 
fully  home,  while  Tircio  and  Antonio  brought  in 
the  flock. 

From  that  day  all  went  wrong.  Juan  was  abso 
lutely  helpless.  Don  Jos6  would  not  trust  the 
flock  to  mere  boys,  and  turned  it  over  to  another 
partidario.  The  winter  had  been  a  very  hard  one. 
Hundreds  of  sheep  had  died,  and  when  it  came  to 
the  count,  Juan  had  not  a  dozen  to  call  his  own. 

Then  his  oldest  son  was  killed  by  the  Navajos 
on  his  way  to  Cubero  to  work  as  a  shepherd,  and 
another  of  the  boys  had  a  long  fever.  Had  it  not 
been  for  'Quito,  who  managed  to  pick  up  a  few 
cents'  worth  of  gold-dust  daily  at  the  placers,  it 
would  have  gone  hard  with  the  family.  But  it 
was  slow  work. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  find  a  big  nugget,"  thought 
'Quito  a  hundred  times  a  day,  "  such  as  they  say 
Pablo  Turrieta  washed  out  when  the  placers  were 
new!" 

When  the  men  would  let  him,  he  would  swing 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET.  33 

down  the  rope  into  some  deep  shaft  and  scrape 
out  the  gravel  from  the  hollows  in  the  bed-rock, 
where  nuggets  were  likeliest  to  have  settled ;  and 
one  day  he  found  a  little  lump  of  gold  worth  a 
couple  of  dollars,  which  comforted  him  consider 
ably. 

But  still  he  dreamed  of  great  nuggets  that  should 
light  up  Juan's  poor  little  room  with  their  yellow 
sheen;  for  'Quito  had  caught  that  strange  fever 
which  never  fully  deserts  one  who  once  really 
learns  the  fascination  of  gold-digging,  and  which 
has  kept  in  poverty  a  thousand  times  as  many 
men  as  it  has  made  rich.  And  at  last  he  found 
his  nugget. 

"'Quito,"  said  Juan  one  day,  "go  thou  to  my 
Cousin  Ciriaco  and  borrow  his  oxen  to  drag  some 
logs  from  the  canon,  for  we  have  no  more  wood." 

'Quito  was  soon  driving  the  oxen  along  the 
crazy  road  which  led  past  the  placers  and  up  into 
the  deep,  narrow  gorge  from  which  all  that  vast 
bed  of  auriferous  gravel  had  been  patiently  shov 
elled  out  by  the  rains  of  countless  centuries. 

Far  up  there  were  some  shafts  sunk  in  the  solid 
rock  by  restless  prospectors  in  search  of  the  great 
mother  vein  of  gold  from  which  all  that  golden 
dust  below  had  originally  come;  but  near  its 
mouth  the  canon  was  wider,  and  its  bed,  where 
the  road  crossed  from  side  to  side,  was  a  shallow 
layer  of  gravel  on  a  lap  of  solid  rock. 

Snow  half  a  foot  deep  was  melting  fast  in  the 


34  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

canon  as  'Quito  urged  along  the  deliberate  oxen. 
Here  the  road  was  bare  for  a  rod  or  so,  and  there 
a  belt  of  snow  stretched  across  it.  As  the  oxen 
plodded  through  the  wet  snow,  it  balled  up  under 
their  hoofs  in  low,  clumsy  stilts,  which  caked  off 
reluctantly  when  they  struck  the  wet  gravel  again. 
'Quito  dropped  behind  to  make  a  snowball,  and 
started  to  catch  up  again,  whereat  the  oxen  fell 
into  a  lazy,  lurching  trot. 

The  old  pinto  stumbled  a  bit,  as  the  big  cake  of 
hard-packed  snow  broke  from  one  of  his  hind 
hoofs.  The  sugar-loaf  lump  had  pressed  deep  into 
the  gravelly  mud;  and  with  its  lower  surface 
covered  with  sand  and  pebbles,  it  lay  half  turned 
up  on  the  side  of  the  cup-shaped  cavity  it  had 
made,  into  which  the  sunlight  slanted. 

A  queer,  dull  glitter  caught  'Quito's  eye,  and  he 
kicked  away  the  snowball. 

An  instant  later  he  was  on  his  knees  in  the  mud, 
trembling  and  crying,  and  scratching  the  shallow 
gravel  from  a  little  crevice  in  the  bed-rock.  For 
there,  caught  in  a  crack  three  inches  deep,  and 
wedged  between  smooth  pebbles  of  porphyry,  was 
a  rough,  irregular,  water-worn  lump,  of  that  pecu 
liar  waxy  yellow  which  distinguishes  Guadalupe 
gold  from  that  of  many  other  placers  —  a  lump 
bigger  than  'Quito's  dirty,  brown  fist ! 

Ah,  where  would  Pablo  Turrieta  be  now  ?  After 
this  they  would  say  in  camp,  "  But  'Quito  found 
the  biggest  of  all."  And  how  Juan's  eyes  would 


NUGGFT.  35 

shine !  Ascencion  should  go  up  to  Santa  F£  and 
buy  a  gay  Chihuahua  head-shawl  for  Sundays. 
And  what  mountains  of  beans  and  corn  and  chili 
and  dried  meat  they  would  heap  up  on  the  floor  of 
the  dark  storeroom ! 

He  dug  the  oak  handle  of  his  whip  into  the 
crevice,  and  pried  out  the  pebbles  which  the  spring 
torrents  had  packed  like  paving-cobbles,  and  at 
last  out  came  the  great  nugget. 

Oh,  how  heavy  it  was !  He  was  fairly  sobbing 
now  —  as  I  have  seen  strong  men  sob  over  a 
smaller  nugget  than  that,  when  it  meant  relief 
from  suffering. 

He  held  the  precious  mass  up  where  its  brother, 
the  sunlight,  could  twinkle  over  it,  and  gloated  on 
its  queer  lumps  and  hollows. 

Just  then  a  heavy  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder, 
and  a  croaking  voice  said,  "  What  hast  thou,  horn 
brote?" 

'Quito  looked  up  into  the  evil  face  of  the  last 
man  in  the  world  he  wished  to  see  there.  It  was 
Juan  "Ronco," — Hoarse  John, —  who  never  worked 
except  enough  to  buy  the  fiery  mescal  with  which 
he  kept  besotted,  and  who  now  and  then  returned 
to  camp,  after  a  week's  absence,  bringing  a  strange 
horse  or  burro,  which  he  was  ready  to  sell  cheap 
for  cash  or  drinks. 

'Quito  had  thrust  his  hand  like  lightning  into 
the  bosom  of  his  ragged  woollen  shirt,  and,  dodg 
ing  like  a  hunted  rabbit,  he  flew  down  the  canon. 


36  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

But  Juan  Ronco  had  caught  a  golden  glimpse  that 
set  his  thievish  heart  afire,  and  when  he  coveted 
anything  he  would  have  it,  if  he  could  get  it. 

"  Madre  de  Dios  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It's  worth 
four  hundred  dollars  if  it's  worth  a  centavo  !  It's 
mine !  "  And  with  a  great  bound  he  was  after  the 
fugitive. 

It  was  a  cruel  and  an  uneven  race  upon  which 
the  canon's  walls  looked  grimly  down,  that  fresh 
December  morning.  Ahead,  the  agile,  boyish 
figure  flying  madly  along,  with  loose  black  hair 
streaming  back  upon  the  wind,  and  eyes  that  shone 
like  two  dying  coals  with  terror  and  excitement ; 
and  leaping  close  behind,  in  long,  heavy  strides, 
the  black-faced  ruffian  with  fist  upraised. 

But  'Quito  soon  saw  there  was  no  further  hope 
in  flight ;  and  doubling  swiftly  to  the  right,  he  ran 
up  a  long,  narrow  bench  of  gravel  that  rose  against 
the  cliff  from  the  bed  of  the  canon.  Whirling,  with 
the  heavy  nugget  raised  in  his  hand,  he  screamed, 
"  If  you  come  any  nearer,  I  will  give  it  to  you  in 
the  eye!" 

Ronco  stopped.  He  wanted  that  two  pounds  of 
gold,  but  not  in  that  way. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  a  stupid  !  Give  it  to  me,  and  I 
won't  hurt  you ;  but  if  you  don't,  I'll  cut  you  in 
little  pieces !  "  And,  with  a  fearful  Spanish  oath, 
he  whipped  out  a  huge  knife  and  twisted  it  sig 
nificantly. 

The  boy  turned  ghastlier  gray  than  ever,  but 


'QUITO'S  NUGGET.  37 

still  held  his  strange  weapon  poised  above  his 
shoulder. 

"  No ! "  said  he  huskily.  "  It  is  for  my  padrino 
Juan,  and  you  shall  not  have  it.  He  is  very  sick, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  the  house." 

"  Give  it  to  me,  little  dog,  or  I  will  feed  you  to 
the  crows ! "  growled  the  thief,  advancing  step  by 
step,  and  sawing  the  air  with  his  machete.  Step  by 
step  the  boy  backed  off,  his  eye  fixed  on  his  burly 
pursuer,  holding  the  nugget  uplifted  to  strike  the 
ruffian,  if  he  came  too  near. 

"  Never !  never !  It  is  for  Ju  —  "  and  before  the 
word  was  out  of  his  mouth,  he  had  fallen  backward 
out  of  sight. 

Juan  Ronco  stood  peering  down  the  dark  open 
ing  of  a  deserted  prospect-hole.  He  could  see  noth 
ing  down  there,  but  he  would  go  home  and  get  a 
rope.  As  he  turned,  he  saw  Anastacio,  the  bravest 
man  in  Guadalupe,  running  up. 

"  Thou  common  ! "  cried  Anastacio,  "  I  saw ! 
We  will  make  one  less  dog  in  camp ! " 

But  the  cowardly  Ronco  fled  down  the  canon, 
and  was  gone  in  the  wooded  hills  before  Anastacio 
could  overtake  him.  His  face  was  never  seen  in 
Guadalupe  again. 

Half  an  hour  later,  three  strong  men  were  pay 
ing  out  a  rawhide  rope  over  the  edge  of  the  pros- 
pectrhole,  and  on  the  end  swung  Anastacio.  Ten, 
twenty,  thirty  feet  —  and  the  rope  stopped. 

"  Pull ! "  came  in  a  hollow  voice  from  below ; 


38  'QUITO'S  NUGGET. 

and  hand  over  hand  they  lifted  away  till  one  could 
help  Anastacio  to  scramble  out  with  his  limp  bur 
den,  which  he  laid  gently  upon  the  gravel,  while 
they  stood  silently  around. 

The  dark  little  face  was  bruised,  and  the  slender 
neck  drooped  unnaturally  to  one  side.  The  little 
heart  had  stopped,  but  the  grimy,  blood-stained 
fist  still  clutched  a  yellow  something  which  made 
those  four  men  catch  their  breath  —  a  something 
which  is  talked  of  in  New  Mexico  to  this  day  by 
"the  old-timers." 

It  was  'Quito's  Nugget. 


THE   ENCHANTED   MESA. 

A  LEGEND  OF  NEW  MEXICO  IN  THE  FIFTEENTH  CENTURY. 

"  HEAR  ye,  people  of  Acoma,  for  I,  the  Gover 
nor,  speak.  To-morrow,  go  ye  down  to  the  fields 
to  plough ;  already  it  is  the  month  of  rain,  and  there 
is  little  in  the  storerooms.  Let  all  go  forth,  that 
we  build  shelters  of  cedar  and  stay  in  the  fields. 
The  women,  also,  to  cook  for  us.  Take  ye,  each 
one,  food  for  a  month.  And  pray  that  the  Sun- 
Father,  Pa-yat-yama,  give  us  much  corn  this  year." 

As  white-headed  Kai-a-tan-ish  passed  deliberately 
down  in  front  of  the  houses,  the  soft  Queres  words 
rolling  sonorously  from  his  deep  throat,  the  people 
stopped  their  work  to  listen  to  him.  The  ruddy 
sun  was  just  resting  over  the  cliffs  of  the  Black 
Mesa,  which  walled  the  pretty  valley  on  the  west, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  houses  were  creeping  far 
out  along  the  rocky  floor  of  the  town. 

Such  quaint  houses  as  they  were  !  Built  of 
gray  adobe,  terraced  so  that  the  three  successive 
stories  receded  like  a  gigantic  flight  of  steps,  they 
stood  in  three  parallel  rows,  each  a  continuous 
block  a  thousand  feet  long,  divided  by  interior 
walls  into  wee  but  comfortable  tenements.  There 

39 


40  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

were  no  doors  nor  windows  in  the  lower  story,  but 
tall  ladders  reached  to  the  roof,  which  formed  a 
sort  of  broad  piazza  before  the  second-story  door. 
Women  were  washing  their  hair  with  the  soapy 
root  of  the  palmilla,  on  the  yard-like  roofs,  or  com 
ing  home  from  the  great  stone  reservoir  with  gayly 
decorated  tinajas l  of  rainwater  perched  confidently 
upon  their  heads.  Children  ran  races  along  the 
smooth  rock  which  served  for  a  street,  or  cared 
for  their  mothers'  babies,  slung  upon  their  patient 
young  backs.  The  men  were  very  busy,  tying  up 
bundles  in  buckskin,  putting  new  handles  on  their 
stone  axes  and  hoes,  or  fitting  to  damaged  arrows 
new  heads  shaped  from  pieces  of  quartz  or  volcanic 
glass. 

As  the  Governor  kept  his  measured  way  down 
the  street,  repeating  his  proclamation  at  intervals, 
a  tall,  powerfully  made  Indian  stepped  from  one 
of  the  houses,  descended  the  ladder  to  the  ground, 
and  walked  out  toward  the  sunset  until  he  could 
go  no  farther.  He  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  dizzy 
cliff.  From  its  beetling  top  the  old  cedars  in  the 
plain  below  looked  like  dark  green  moss.  For  in 
those  days  the  Que*res  city  of  Acoma  stood  on  the 
Rock  of  Katzimo  —  a  great  round,  stone  table,  two 
miles  in  circumference,  and  with  perpendicular 
walls  a  thousand  feet  high.  The  level  valley,  five 
miles  wide,  was  hemmed  in  by  cliffs,  forming  a 

1  Large  earthen  jars. 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  41 

gigantic  box ;  and  in  the  very  centre  rose  the  red 
Rock  of  Katzimo. 

Sh6-ka-ka  stood  looking  out  at  the  fiery  sunset 
with  a  sad  and  absorbed  expression.  He  did  not 
hear  the  patter  of  bare  feet  on  the  rock  behind 
him,  nor  did  he  turn  till  a  small  hand  nestled  in 
his  own,  and  a  boy's  clear  voice  said:  — 

"  Ah,  Tata !  To-morrow  we  go  to  the  planting ! 
The  Governor  has  said  it.  And  perhaps  I  may 
kill  rabbits  with  the  new  bow  thou  didst  make  me. 
When  I  am  bigger,  I  will  use  it  to  kill  the  wicked 
Apaches." 

The  man  laid  his  muscular  hand  upon  the  boy's 
head  and  drew  it  to  his  side.  "  Still  for  war  and 
the  chase !  "  he  said  fondly.  "  But  it  is  better  to 
kill  rabbits  and  deer  than  men.  Think  thou  of 
that,  A'-chi-te.  We  Queres  fight  only  to  save  our 
homes,  not  for  the  sake  of  fighting  and  plunder, 
as  do  the  Apaches.  But  thy  mother  is  very  sick 
and  cannot  go  to  the  fields,  and  it  is  not  kind  to 
leave  her  alone.  Only  that  I  am  a  councillor  of  the 
city  and  must  give  a  good  example  in  working,  I 
would  stay  with  her.  A  hundred  children  will  go 
to  the  fields,  but  thou  shalt  be  a  man  to  keep  the 
town.  Two  other  women  lie  sick  near  the  estufa, 
and  thou  shalt  care  for  thy  mother  and  for  them." 

The  boy's  lips  quivered  for  an  instant  with  dis 
appointment  ;  but  Pueblo  children  never  even  think 
disobedience,  and  he  shut  his  teeth  firmly. 

"  Poor   Nana ! "  (mother)  he  said,  "  poor  little 


42  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

Mamma !  Truly  she  cannot  be  left  alone.  And, 
if  the  Apaches  come,  I  will  roll  down  such  stones 
on  them  that  they  shall  think  the  Hero  Brothers 
have  come  down  from  the  Sun-Father's  house  to 
fight  for  Acoma !  " 

"That  is  my  brave.  Now  run  thou  home  and 
grind  the  dried  meat  and  put  it  in  my  pouch,  that 
I  may  be  ready  to  start  early.  All  else  is  done.  If 
thou  dost  well  while  I  am  gone,  I  will  make  thee 
the  best  bow  and  quiver  of  arrows  in  all  Acoma." 

A'-chi-te  started  homeward,  running  like  a  deer. 
He  was  fifteen  years  old,  tall  for  his  age,  clean 
limbed  and  deep-chested.  His  heavy  black  hair 
was  cut  straight  above  his  big,  black  eyes,  and  be 
hind  fell  below  his  shoulders.  He  had  the  massive 
but  clear-cut  features  of  his  father  —  a  face  of  re 
markable  strength  and  beauty,  despite  the  swarthy 
skin. 

Sh<5-ka-ka  sighed,  as  the  boy  ran  off.  "  It  is  in 
an  ill  time  that  we  start  for  the  planting.  I  saw 
an  owl  in  the  cedars  to-day,  and  it  would  not  fly 
when  I  shouted.  And  when  I  smoked  the  holy 
smoke  I  could  not  blow  it  upward  at  all.  Perhaps 
the  spirits  are  angry  with  us.  It  is  good  that  we 
make  a  sacrifice  to-night,  to  put  their  anger  to 
sleep."  And  he  strode  thoughtfully  away  to  the 
great,  round  estufa,  where  the  councillors  were  to 
smoke  and  deliberate  upon  the  morrow's  work. 

When  the  Sun-Father  peeped  over  the  eastern 
mesas  in  the  morning,  he  looked  in  the  eyes  of  his 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  43 

expectant  children.  Motionless  and  statuesque 
they  stood  upon  the  housetops  awaiting  his  com 
ing  ;  and  now  they  bowed  reverently  as  his  round, 
red  house  rose  above  the  horizon.  A  solemn  sac 
rifice  had  been  offered  the  night  before,  and  all  the 
medicine  men  deemed  the  omens  favorable,  save 
old  P6o-ya-tye,  who  shook  his  head  but  could  not 
tell  what  he  feared. 

Already  a  long  procession  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  bearing  heavy  burdens  for  the  packs,  was 
starting  toward  the  southern  brink  of  the  cliff.  A 
deep,  savage  cleft,  gnawed  out  by  the  rains  of  cen 
turies,  afforded  a  dangerous  path  for  five  hundred 
feet  downward ;  and  then  began  the  great  Ladder 
Rock.  A  vast  stone  column,  once  part  of  the 
mesa,  but  cut  off  by  the  erosion  of  unnumbered 
ages,  had  toppled  over  so  that  its  top  leaned  against 
the  cliff,  its  base  being  two  hundred  feet  out  in  a 
young  mountain  of  soft,  white  sand.  Up  this 
almost  precipitous  rock  a  series  of  shallow  steps  had 
been  cut.  To  others,  this  dizzy  ladder  would  have 
seemed  insurmountable ;  but  these  sure-footed  Chil 
dren  of  the  Sun  thought  nothing  of  it.  It  gave 
the  only  possible  access  to  the  mesa's  top,  and  a 
well-aimed  stone  would  roll  a  climbing  enemy  in 
gory  fragments  to  the  bottom.  They  could  afford 
a  little  trouble  for  the  sake  of  having  the  most 
impregnable  city  in  the  world  —  these  quiet  folk 
who  hated  war,  but  lived  among  the  most  desper 
ate  savage  warriors  the  world  has  ever  known. 


44  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

The  seeds,  the  provisions,  the  stone  hand-mills, 
the  stone  axes  and  hoes,  the  rude  ploughs,  —  each 
made  of  a  young  pine,  with  one  short,  strong 
branch  left  near  the  butt  for  a  share,  —  were  packed 
in  convenient  bundles  upon  the  backs  of  the  men ; 
and  the  women  had  each  a  child  clinging  behind  her. 
As  Sh6-ka-ka  strode  away,  he  turned  to  look  up 
once  more  at  the  rock,  and  at  the  tiny  figure  out 
lined  against  the  sky.  It  seemed  no  more  than  a 
wee  black  ant,  but  he  knew  it  was  his  son,  ALchi-te, 
and  waved  his  hand  as  he  yelled  back,  "  Sha-wa- 
ts6sh ! "  from  lungs  as  mighty  as  those  of  Mon- 
tezuma. 

In  half  an  hour  the  long  procession  had  melted 
into  the  brown  bosom  of  the  valley;  and  even 
A'-chi-te's  keen  eyes  could  distinguish  it  no  longer. 
He  drew  a  deep  breath,  threw  back  his  square 
young  shoulders,  and  walked  away  to  his  mother's 
house.  Alone  with  three  sick  women,  the  only 
man  in  Acoma  —  no  wonder  the  boy's  head  was 
carried  even  straighter  than  usual.  Truly,  this 
was  better  than  going  to  the  planting.  All  the 
boys  had  gone  there,  but  he  was  trusted  to  guard 
alone  the  proudest  city  of  the  Quires!  He  ran 
up  the  tall  ladder  and  entered  the  house.  At  one 
side  of  the  dark  little  room  lay  his  mother  on  a  low 
bed  of  skins.  The  boy  put  his  warm  cheek  against 
the  wasted  face,  and  a  thin  hand  crept  up  and 
stroked  his  heavy  hair.  "  Little  one  of  my  heart," 
she  whispered,  "are  they  all  gone?" 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  45 

"  All  gone,  Nana,  and  I  am  left  to  guard  thee 
and  the  town.  Now  await  me  while  I  make  thee 
a  drink  of  atole"  1 

A'-chi-te  went  over  to  the  big  lava  metate,  2  at  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  drew  from  a  buckskin  bag 
a  handful  of  blue  corn  that  had  been  parched  in 
the  big  beehive  of  an  oven,  and  laying  the  hard 
kernels  on  the  sloping  block,  began  to  scrub  them 
to  powder  with  a  small  slab  of  lava,  flat  on  one 
side  and  rounded  on  the  other  to  fit  the  hand. 
When  the  corn  was  reduced  to  a  fine,  bluish  meal, 
he  brushed  it  carefully  into  a  little  earthen  bowl, 
and  with  a  gourd-cup  dipped  some  water  from  a 
cajete.3  This  he  poured  slowly  upon  the  meal, 
stirring  with  a  stick,  till  the  bowl  was  full  of  a 
thin,  sweet  porridge. 

"  Drink,  Nana,"  he  said,  holding  the  bowl  to  her 
lips,  and  supporting  her  head  on  his  left  arm. 
"  Then  I  will  carry  atole  to  Stchu-muts  and  Kush- 
eit-ye." 

When  he  had  fed  his  three  charges  and  carried 
a  supply  of  gnarled  cedar  sticks  into  each  house  to 
feed  the  queer  little  mud  fire-places,  —  for  at  that 
altitude  of  over  seven  thousand  feet,  it  was  cold 
even  in  summer,  —  A'-chi-te  turned  his  attention  to 
the  duty  which  naturally  seemed  to  his  boyish  ambi- 

1  A  gruel  made  by  boiling  Indian  corn  meal  in  water  or  milk. 

2  A  curved  stone  in  the  shape  of  an  inclined  plane,  used  for 
grinding  corn. 

8  A  flat  bowl  of  clay. 


46  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

tion  the  most  important,  to  guard  the  town.  He 
slung  over  his  shoulder  his  bow  and  arrows,  in  a 
case  made  from  the  skin  of  mo-Jceit-cha,  the  moun 
tain  lion.  Then  he  went  scouring  over  the  pueblo, 
gathering  up  all  the  stones  he  could  find,  from  the 
size  of  his  fist  to  that  of  his  head,  and  carried  them 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  great  cleft  where  the 
Ladder  Rock  began.  Here  he  stowed  them  in  a 
little  recess  in  the  rock ;  and  as  they  were  not  so 
many  as  he  thought  desirable,  he  added  to  them 
several  score  adobe  bricks  from  ruined  houses. 
When  this  was  done  he  viewed  his  battery  with 
great  satisfaction.  "  Now  let  the  Apaches  come  ! 
Truly,  they  will  find  it  bitter  climbing!"  And 
indeed,  it  was  so.  So  long  as  his  rude  ammunition 
should  hold  out,  the  boy  alone  could  hold  at  bay  a 
thousand  foes.  No  arrow  could  reach  to  his  lofty 
perch,  nor  could  the  strongest  climber  withstand 
even  his  lightest  missile  on  that  dizzy  "  ladder." 

A'-chi-te  now  brought  down  some  skins  and  made 
a  little  bed  beside  his  pile  of  stones.  There  was 
no  danger  that  the  Apaches  would  come  in  the 
daytime,  and  he  could  sleep  with  his  weapons  by 
his  side,  so  that  they  should  not  surprise  him  by 
night.  During  the  day  he  could  devote  himself  to 
the  sick. 

Two  days  went  by  uneventfully,  and  A'-chi-te 
was  disappointed.  Why  did  not  the  Apaches  come, 
that  he  might  show  his  father  how  well  he  could 
guard  Acoma?  The  third  day  dawned  cloudy, 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  47 

and  a  ragged,  sullen  drift  hid  the  Peak  of  Snow 
away  to  the  north.  In  the  afternoon  the  rain 
began  to  sweep  down  violently,  a  savage  wind 
dashing  it  against  the  adobes  as  if  to  hurl  them 
from  their  solid  foundations.  Little  rivers  ran 
down  the  streets  and  poured  from  the  edges  of  the 
cliff  in  hissing  cataracts.  A  perfect  torrent  was 
running  down  the  cleft  and  spreading  out  over 
the  great  Ladder  Rock  in  a  film  of  foam.  Luck 
ily,  A'-chi-te's  missiles  and  bed  were  out  of  its 
reach. 

"  Surely  thou  wilt  not  sleep  in  the  Ladder  to 
night,"  said  his  mother,  as  she  listened  to  the  roar 
of  the  storm. 

"  Yes,  Nana,  it  must  be.  On  such  a  night  the 
Apaches  are  likeliest  to  come.  I  am  not  salt,  that 
the  rain  should  melt  me,  and  my  bed  is  above  the 
running  water.  What  would  Tata  say  if  he  came 
home  and  found  I  had  let  the  Apaches  in  for  fear 
of  getting  myself  wet  ?  " 

When  he  had  fed  the  sick,  A'-chi-te  took  his  bow 
and  quiver  and  started  for  his  post.  It  was  already 
growing  dark,  and  the  storm  showed  no  sign  of 
abatement.  It  was  a  fearful  climb  down  to  his 
little  crow's  nest  of  a  fort.  The  narrow,  slippery 
path  was  at  an  average  angle  of  over  fifty  degrees, 
and  was  now  choked  with  a  seething  torrent.  He 
had  at  one  time  to  climb  along  precarious  ledges 
above  the  water,  and  at  another  to  trust  himself 
waist  deep  in  that  avalanche  of  foam  —  keeping 


48  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

from  being  swept  down  to  instant  death  only  by 
pressing  desperately  against  the  rocky  walls  of  the 
gorge,  here  not  more  than  three  feet  apart.  But 
at  last,  trembling  with  exhaustion,  he  drew  himself 
up  to  his  little  niche  and  sank  upon  his  drenched 
bed,  while  the  white  torrent  bellowed  and  raved 
under  his  feet,  as  if  maddened  at  the  loss  of  its 
expected  prey.  Deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  dark 
ness,  fiercer  and  fiercer  the  storm.  Such  a  rain 
had  never  been  seen  before  in  all  the  country  of 
the  Hano  Oshatch.  It  came  down  in  great  sheets 
that  veered  and  slanted  with  the  desperate  wind, 
dug  up  stout  cedars  by  the  roots,  and  pried  great 
rocks  from  their  lofty  perches  to  send  them  thun 
dering  down  the  valley.  To  the  shivering  boy, 
drenched  and  alone  in  his  angle  of  the  giant  cliff, 
it  was  a  fearful  night ;  and  older  heroes  than  he 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  uneasiness.  But  he 
never  thought  of  leaving  his  post ;  and,  hugging 
the  rocky  wall  to  escape  as  far  as  he  could  the 
pitiless  pelting  of  the  cold  rain,  he  watched  the 
long  hours  through. 

"A'-chi-te!     A'-chi-te!" 

Surely  that  could  not  be  his  mother's  voice ! 
The  gray  dawn  was  beginning  to  assert  itself  on 
the  dense  blackness  of  the  sky.  The  rain  and  the 
wind  were  more  savage  than  ever.  She  could  not 
be  heard  from  the  house,  he  thought  —  and  yet  — 

"A'-chi-te!     A'-chi-te!" 

It  was  her  voice ;  and  in  surprise  and  consterna- 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  49 

tion  A'-chi-te  started  up  the  cleft.  It  was  still  dark 
in  that  narrow,  lofty  walled  chasm;  the  torrent 
was  deeper  and  wilder  than  before.  It  was  easier 
to  go  up  than  down  in  such  a  place,  but  it  was  all 
his  lithe,  young  limbs  and  strong  muscles  could  do 
to  bring  him  to  the  top.  There  stood  his  mother, 
her  soft,  black  hair  blown  far  out  on  the  fierce 
wind,  her  great  eyes  shining  unnaturally  in  their 
shrunken  settings. 

" Sashe  mut-yet-sa!  The  house  is  fallen!  It 
has  broken  my  arm,  and  Kush-eit-ye  :':.  buried  to 
her  head  under  a  wall.  The  White  Shadows  have 
come  for  us !  Thou  must  run  to  thy  father,  and 
bring  him  home  before  we  die !  Run,  my  brave, 
soul  of  my  heart !  " 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  then  down  the  roaring 
chasm.  It  was  far  worse  than  when  he  had  de 
scended  before.  And  the  Ladder  Rock  —  could 
he  do  it?  He  put  his  arm  across  his  mother's 
shoulder  and  drew  her  head  against  his  cheek,  pat 
ting  her  back  gently,  —  the  quaint  embrace  of  his 
people. 

"  Get  thee  into  a  house,  Nana.  I  go  for  Tata. 
Sha-wa-ts<5sh!"  And  in  another  moment  he  had 
disappeared  between  the  black  jaws  of  the  abyss. 

The  horror  of  a  lifetime  was  in  that  few  hun 
dred  feet.  Blinded  by  the  rain,  deafened  by  the 
hoarse  thunder  of  the  stream,  he  let  himself  down 
foot  by  foot  with  desperate  strength.  Once  the 
flood  swept  his  feet  from  under  him  and  left  him 


50  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

hanging  by  the  clutch  of  his  hands  upon  the  walls. 
It  took  two  full  minutes  to  bring  his  feet  back  to 
the  rock  beneath.  But  at  last  he  came  to  where 
the  cleft  widened  and  the  franUv-  stream  spouted 
out  and  went  rolling  down  the  precipitous  slope  of 
the  Ladder  Rock.  Here  he  stood  a  moment  to 
catch  his  breath,  and  then  turning,  began  to  back 
down  the  slippery  rock,  his  hands  dug  fiercely  into 
one  foot-notch,  while  his  toes  groped  in  the  hissing 
water  for  the  notch  below.  His  teeth  were  set,  his 
bronze  face  was  a  ghastly  gray,  his  eyes  were  like 
coals.  Tiie  wet  strands  cf  his  hair  whipped  his 
face  like  scourges,  his  finger-ends  were  bleeding 
as  he  pressed  them  against  the  sandstone.  But 
slowly,  automatically  as  a  machine,  he  crept  down, 
down,  fighting  the  fierce  water,  clinging  to  the  tiny 
toe-holes.  Once  he  stopped.  He  was  sure  that  he 
felt  the  rock  tremble,  and  then  despised  himself 
for  the  thought.  The  great  Ladder  Rock  tremble ! 
Why,  it  was  as  solid  as  the  mighty  mesa ! 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  he  reached  the  bot 
tom  of  the  rock;  and  when  he  looked  downward, 
over  his  shoulder,  he  cried  out  aghast.  The 
cataract  had  had  its  way  with  the  great  hill  of  fine 
sand  on  which  the  base  of  the  rock  rested;  and 
where  the  path  had  been  was  now  a  great  gully 
fifty  feet  deep.  To  drop  was  certain  death.  He 
thought  for  a  moment.  Ah !  the  pinon  ! 1  And  he 

1  A  small  pine  which  bears  an  edible  nut. 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  51 

crawled  to  the  side  of  the  rock,  which  was  here 
only  a  gentle  slope.  Sure  enough  there  was  the 
pinon  tree  still  standing,  but  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  chasm.  It  was  fifteen  feet  out  and  ten  feet 
below  him  —  an  ugly  jump.  But  he  drew  a  long- 
breath  and  leaped  out.  Crashing  down  through 
the  brittle  branches,  bruised  and  torn  and  bleed 
ing,  he  righted  himself  at  last  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  A  moment's  breathing  spell  and  he  was 
dashing  down  the  long  sand-hill  and  then  away  up 
the  valley.  The  fields  were  eight  miles  away. 
Would  his  strength  last,  sorely  tried  as  it  had  been? 
He  did  not  know ;  but  he  pressed  his  hand  against 
his  bleeding  side  and  ran  on. 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  ground  quiver  beneath  his 
feet.  A  strange,  rushing  sound  filled  his  ears; 
and,  whirling  about,  he  saw  the  great  Ladder  Rock 
rear,  throw  its  head  out  from  the  cliff,  reel  there 
an  instant  in  mid-air,  and  then  go  toppling  out 
into  the  plain  like  some  wounded  Titan.  As  those 
thousands  of  tons  of  rock  smote  upon  the  solid 
earth  with  a  hideous  roar,  a  great  cloud  went  up, 
and  the  valley  seemed  to  rock  to  and  fro.  From 
the  face  of  the  cliffs,  three  miles  away,  great  rocks 
came  leaping  and  thundering  down,  and  the  tall 
pinons  swayed  and  bowed  as  before  a  hurricane. 
A'-chi-te  was  thrown  headlong  by  the  rock,  and 
lay  stunned.  The  Ladder  Rock  had  fallen  —  the 
unprecedented  flood  had  undermined  its  sandy 
bed! 


52  THE  ENCHANTED  MESA. 

And  the  town — his  mother — !  The  boy  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  began  running  again,  stiffly,  and 
with  an  awful  pallor  on  his  set  face. 

When  the  men  of  the  Acoma  came  running 
home,  it  was  in  deathly  silence.  And  even  when 
they  stood  beside  that  vast  fallen  pillar  of  stone, 
looking  up  at  the  accursed  cliff,  not  one  could 
speak  a  word.  There  was  Acoma,  the  City  in  the 
Sky,  the  home  of  their  forefathers ;  but  their  feet 
would  never  press  its  rocky  streets  again.  Five 
hundred  feet  above  their  heads  opened  the  narrow 
cleft;  and  five  hundred  feet  higher,  against  the 
sullen  gray  sky,  flitted  two  wan  figures  whose 
frantic  shrieks  scarce  reached  the  awe-struck 
crowd  below.  No  ladder  could  ever  be  built  to 
scale  that  dizzy  height.  The  cliff  everywhere  was 
perpendicular.  And  so,  forever  exiled  from  the 
homes  that  were  before  their  eyes,  robbed  of  their 
all,  heart-wrung  by  the  sight  of  the  doomed 
women  on  the  cliff,  the  simple-hearted  Children 
of  the  Sun  circled  long  about  the  fatal  Rock  of 
Katzimo.  Council  after  council  was  held,  sacrifice 
after  sacrifice  was  offered ;  but  the  merciless  cliff 
still  frowned  unpitying.  It  became  plain  that 
they  must  build  a  new  town  to  be  safe  from  the 
savage  tribes  which  surrounded  them  on  every 
side;  and  on  a  noble  mesa,  three  miles  to  the 
south,  they  founded  a  new  Acoma,  where  it  stands 
to-day,  five  hundred  feet  above  the  plain,  and  safe 
from  a  similar  catastrophe. 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA.  53 

For  weeks  the  two  women  haunted  the  brink 
of  their  aerial  prison,  and  daily  Sh<5-ka-ka  and 
A'-chi-te  went  to  its  foot  with  sympathizing  neigh 
bors  to  weep,  and  to  scream  out  words  of  hopeless 
encouragement.  Then  Stchu-muts  came  no  more, 
and  Nai-chat-tye  was  alone.  Back  and  forth  she 
paced,  like  some  caged  beast  chafing  at  the  bars, 
and  then,  throwing  up  her  wasted  arms,  sprang 
out  to  her  death. 

Full  four  hundred  years  have  passed  since  then, 
and  the  land  of  the  Pueblos  is  filling  with  a  race 
of  white-skinned  strangers.  Scientific  expeditions 
have  exhausted  the  ingenuity  of  civilization  to 
scale  the  Rock  of  Katzimo,  and  recover  its  archaeo 
logical  treasures,  but  all  in  vain.  The  natives 
shun  it,  believing  it  accursed. 

And  to-day,  as  I  sit  on  the  battlements  of  the 
Acoma  that  now  is,  watching  the  sunset  glory 
creeping  higher  up  that  wondrous  island  of  ruddy 
rock  to  the  north,  an  old  Indian  at  my  side  tells 
the  oft-repeated  story  of  the  Enchanted  Mesa. 
He  is  the  many-times-great-grandson  of  A'-chi-te. 


A  PUEBLO   KABBIT-HUNT. 


IT  is  curious  how  much  more  we  hear  of  the 
marvellous  customs  and  strange  peoples  of  other 
lands  than  of  those  still  to  be  found  in  our  own 
great  nation.  Almost  every  schoolboy,  for  instance, 
knows  of  the  Australian  boomerang-throwers;  but 
very  few  people  in  the  East  are  aware  that  within 
the  limits  of  the  United  States,  in  the  portion  long' 
est  inhabited  by  Caucasians,  we  have  a  race  of  ten 
thousand  aborigines  who  are  practically  boomerang- 
throwers.  It  is  true  that  they  do  not  achieve  the 
wonderful  parabolas  and  curves  of  the  Australians ; 
and,  for  that  matter,  we  are  learning  that  many  of 
the  astounding  tales  told  of  the  Australian  winged 
club  are  mere  fiction.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
while  the  Bushmen  cannot  so  throw  the  boome 
rang  that  it  will  kill  an  animal  and  then  return  to 
the  thrower,  they  can  make  it  return  from  a  sport 
ive  throw  in  the  air ;  and  that  they  can  impart  to 
it,  even  in  a  murderous  flight,  gyrations  which  seem 
quite  as  remarkable  as  did  the  curving  of  a  base 
ball  when  that  "  art "  was  first  discovered. 

The  Pueblo  Indians,  who  are  our  American 
boomerang-throwers,  attempt  no  such  subtleties. 
54 


A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT.  55 

Their  clubs  are  of  boomerang  shape,  and  cannot 
be  excelled  in  deadly  accuracy  and  force  by  the 
Australian  weapon ;  but  they  are  thrown  only  to 
kill,  and  then  to  lie  by  the  victim  till  picked  up. 
Even  without  the  "  return-ball "  feature,  the  Pue 
blo  club-throwing  is  the  most  wonderful  exhibition 
of  marksmanship  and  skill  within  my  experience — 
and  that  includes  all  kinds  of  hunting  for  all  kinds 
of  game  on  this  continent.  Under  the  circum 
stances  in  which  these  clubs  are  used,  rifles,  never 
so  skilfully  handled,  could  not  be  more  effective. 

The  Pueblos  are  a  peculiar  people.  Quiet, 
friendly,  intelligent,  industrious  farmers,  they 
dwell  in  quaint  villages  of  neat  and  comfortable 
adobes,  which  are  a  never-failing  wonder  to  the 
intelligent  traveller  in  New  Mexico.  Their  primi 
tive  weapons,  of  course,  gave  place  long  ago  to 
modern  firearms.  All  have  good  rifles  and  six- 
shooters,  usually  of  the  best  American  makes,  and 
are  expert  in  the  use  of  them.  But  there  is  one 
branch  of  the  chase  for  which  the  guns  are  left  at 
home  —  and  that  is  the  rabbit-drive.  The  outfit 
of  each  of  the  throng  of  hunters  out  for  a  rabbit- 
hunt  consists  merely  of  three  elbow-crooked  clubs. 

When  that  forgotten  hero,  Alvar  Nunez  Cabeza 
de  Vaca,  beside  whose  privations  and  wanderings 
those  of  all  other  explorers  seem  petty,  first  set 
foot  in  the  interior  of  the  country  now  called  the 
United  States,  more  than  three  and  a  half  centuries 
ago,  he  found  the  Indians  already  using  their 


56  A  PUEBLO  EABBIT-HUNT. 

boomerangs.  Returning  to  Spain  after  his  unpar 
alleled  journey  of  nine  years  on  foot  through  an 
unknown  world,  Vaca  wrote  in  his  journal,  about 
1539:- 

"  These  Indians  were  armed  with  clubs  which 
they  threw  with  astonishing  precision,  and  killed 
with  them  more  hares  than  they  could  consume. 
There  were  hares  in  great  abundance.  When  one 
was  seen,  the  Indians  would  surround  and  attack 
him  with  their  clubs,  driving  him  from  one  to 
another  till  he  was  killed." 

Two  varieties  of  rabbits  are  still  wonderfully 
abundant  in  New  Mexico.  Many  are  shot  in  the 
winter  by  the  Pueblos,  casually,  but  rabbit-hunting 
in  earnest  is  confined  to  the  warm  months,  gener 
ally  beginning  in  May. 

I  had  lived  a  long  time  in  the  pueblo  of  Isleta 
before  the  twelve  hundred  Indians  who  are  "  my 
friends  and  fellow-citizens"  decided  upon  a  rab 
bit-drive.  We  had  had  dances, — strange  in  sig 
nificance  as  in  performance,  —  superb  foot-races 
and  horse-races,  and  other  diversions  on  the  holi 
days  of  the  saints ;  but  no  hunting.  One  day, 
however,  I  saw  a  boy  digging  a  root  which  he 
whittled  into  significant  shape;  and  later  in  the 
afternoon  wrinkled  Lorenzo,  my  next-door  neigh 
bor,  left  his  burro  and  his  ponderous  irrigating 
hoe  outside  the  door,  and  stepped  into  my  little 
adobe  room  with  an  air  of  unusual  importance. 
He  seated  himself  slowly,  reached  for  my  tobacco 


A  PUEBLO  RABBIT-HUNT.  57 

and  a  corn-husk,  and  rolled  a  cigarette  with  great 
deliberation ;  but  all  the  time  I  could  see  that  he 
was  swelling  with  important  news. 

"  Que  hay,  compadre  ?"1  I  asked  at  last,  passing 
him  a  match. 

"  Good  news  !  Perhaps  to-morrow  we  hunt  rab 
bits.  There  are  many  on  the  llano  toward  the  Hill 
of  the  Wind.  This  evening  you  will  know,  if  you 
hear  the  tombS  and  the  crier." 

Sure  enough,  just  before  the  sun  went  down  be 
hind  the  sacred  crater,  the  muffled  "  pom  !  pom  !  " 
of  the  big  drum  floated  across  the  plaza  to  me; 
and  soon  the  Isleta  Daily  Herald,  as  I  might  call 
him,  —  a  tall,  deep-chested  Pueblo  with  a  thunder 
ous  voice, — was  circulating  the  news.  He  stalked 
solemnly  through  the  uncertain  streets,  his  great 
voice  rolling  out  now  and  then  in  sonorous  sylla 
bles  which  might  have  been  distinguished  at  half  a 
mile.  A  convenient  newspaper,  truly,  for  a  popu 
lation  which  does  not  read !  The  governor  ordered, 
he  said,  a  great  hunt  to-morrow.  After  mass,  all 
those  who  were  to  hunt  must  meet  at  the  top  of 
the  mal  pais  mesa?  west  of  the  gardens.  And 
Francisco  Duran  had  been  chosen  capitan  of  the 
hunt. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  Juan  Rey  brought 
me  the  very  laziest  horse  in  the  world.  Old  Lo 
renzo  was  already  astride  his  pinto  burro,  with 

1  What  is  it,  friend  ?  2  The  mesa  of  the  bad  land,  or  lava. 


58  A  PjfEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT. 

three  clubs  lashed  behind  the  dumpy  saddle,  and 
in  his  hand  the  customary  short  stick  wherewith 
to  guide  Flojo  by  whacks  on  both  sides  of  the 
neck,  for  burros  are  not  trained  to  bridles. 

We  poked  across  the  level  river-bottom,  wound 
through  the  beautiful  gardens  and  orchards, 
splashed  across  the  roily  irrigating  ditches,  and  at 
last,  after  a  short,  sharp  "  tug,"  stood  upon  the  top 
of  the  mesa,  which  with  its  black  lava  cliffs  hems 
the  valley  on  the  west.  We  were  early,  but  the 
arrival  of  a  boy  with  a  spade  —  to  be  used  in 
evicting  such  rabbits  as  might  seek  their  burrows 
—  enabled  us  to  beguile  the  hot  hour  of  waiting 
by  digging  and  eating  the  aromatic  root  of  the 
cMmcyar. 

Presently  the  hunters  came  swarming  over  the 
huge  yellow  sand-hill  to  the  south,  and  rode 
toward  us  in  a  shifting  patch  of  color,  the  units  of 
which  danced,  revolved,  and  mingled,  and  fell 
apart  like  the  gay  flakes  of  a  kaleidoscope.  There 
were  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  them,  from  white- 
headed  men  of  ninety  to  supple  boys  of  twelve. 
Their  white,  flapping  calzoncillos?  red  print  shirts, 
maroon  leggings  and  moccasins,  with  the  various 
hues  of  their  animals,  made  a  pretty  picture 
against  the  sombre  background.  Most  of  them 
rode  their  small  but  tireless  ponies,  descended,  as 
ai?e  all  the  "native"  horses  of  the  plains,  from 

1  Trousers. 


A  PUEBLO  RABBIT-HUNT.  59 

the  matchless  Arab  steeds  brought  from  Spain 
by  the  Conquistador es.  A  few  were  perched 
upon  solemn  burros,  and  a  dozen  ambitious  young 
men  were  afoot.  Only  three  beside  myself  carried 
firearms.  Just  as  the  crowd  neared  us,  a  big  jack- 
rabbit  leaped  up  from  his  nap  behind  a  tiny  sage- 
bush,  and  came  loping  away  toward  the  cliff.  The 
clubs  had  not  yet  been  unlashed  from  the  saddles, 
but  handsome  Pablo's  six-shooter  rang  out,  and 
the  "American  kangaroo,"  whirling  half  a  dozen 
somersaults  from  his  own  inertia,  lay  motionless. 

Five  minutes  later  we  were  all  huddled  together 
on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  facing  to  the  brown  roll 
ing  uplands  westward.  In  front  was  the  withered 
capitan,  consulting  with  the  other  old  men.  Then 
a  few  grandsires  dismounted,  and  squatted  upon 
the  ground;  the  captain  called  out  a  brief  com 
mand  in  Tegua,  and  off  we  went  loping  in  two 
files,  making  a  huge  V,  whose  sides  grew  longer 
and  farther  apart  as  the  old  men  at  the  angle  grew 
smaller  and  smaller  behind  us.  At  every  hundred 
yards  or  so,  the  rear  man  of  each  file  dropped  out 
of  the  procession  and  sat  waiting,  his  horse's  head 
facing  the  interior  of  the  V. 

When  we  had  ridden  a  mile  and  a  half,  the  fore 
most  men  of  the  opposite  file  were  nearly  as  far 
from  us.  We  could  barely  see  them  against  the 
side  of  a  long  swell.  Then  a  faint,  shrill  call  from 
the  captain  floated  across  to  us,  and  we  began  to 
bend  our  arm  of  the  V  inward,  the  others  doing 


60  A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT. 

the  same,  till  at  last  the  ends  of  the  two  arms  met, 
and  instead  of  a  V  we  had  an  irregular  O,  two 
miles  in  its  longest  diameter,  and  marked  out  on 
the  plain  by  the  dot-like  sentinels. 

Now  sharp  eyes  could  detect  that  the  oval  was 
beginning  to  shrink  inward  from  the  other  end. 
The  old  men  were  walking  toward  us;  and  one 
after  another  the  sentinels  left  their  posts  and 
began  to  move  forward  and  inward.  Sharp  and 
shrill  their  "  Hi !  -i-i ! "  ran  along  the  contracting 
circle.  Some  of  the  hunters  were  still  mounted, 
some  led  their  horses  by  the  lariat,  and  some 
turned  them  loose  to  follow  at  will.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  babel  of  shouts  away  down  the  line. 
We  who  were  waiting  patiently  on  our  little  rise 
at  the  head  of  the  "  surround,"  saw  a  sudden  scur 
rying  at  a  point  in  the  circle  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  The  excitement  ran  along  the  line  toward 
us  as  waves  run  along  a  rope  when  an  end  is  shaken. 
One  after  another  we  saw  sentinels  dashing  forward, 
with  uplifted  arms. 

"Alii  viene!"1  called  Lorenzo  to  me,  leaping 
from  Flojo  and  running  forward  with  two  clubs 
grasped  in  his  left  hand,  and  one  brandished  aloft 
in  the  right.  The  third  man  to  the  left  doubled 
himself  like  a  jack-knife  with  the  effort  which  sent 
his  club  sli-sh-ing  through  the  air;  but  the  long- 
eared  fugitive  had  seen  him,  and  floundered  twenty 

i  There  he  comes  I 


A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT.  61 

feet  aside  in  the  nick  of  time.  Old  Lorenzo's  arm 
had  been  "feinting"  back  and  forth  as  he  ran; 
and  now,  on  a  sudden,  the  curved  missile  sprang 
out  through  the  air,  rose,  settled  again,  and  went 
skimming  along  within  a  yard  of  the  ground  —  a 
real  "daisy-cutter,"  as  a  ball-player  would  have 
called  it.  The  distance  was  full  fifty  yards,  and 
the  rabbit  was  going  faster  than  any  dog  on  earth, 
save  the  fleetest  greyhound,  could  run.  It  would 
have  been  an  extraordinary  shot  with  a  rifle.  I 
was  opening  my  mouth  to  say,  "Too  far,  corn- 
padre  !  "  —  but  before  the  three  words  could  tum 
ble  from  my  tongue,  there  was  a  little  thud,  a 
shrill  squeal  from  out  a  flurry  of  dust,  and  seventy- 
year  old  Lorenzo  was  bounding  forward  like  a 
boy,  only  to  return,  a  moment  later,  with  a  big 
jack,  which  he  proudly  lashed  behind  his  saddle. 
The  club  had  hit  the  rabbit  in  the  side,  and  had 
torn  him  nearly  in  two. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  first  round  was  over,  with 
a  net  result  of  only  three  rabbits,  and  we  were  all 
huddled  together  again  in  a  little  council  of  war. 
Then  the  white-headed  chief  stepped  out  in  front, 
and  those  who  had  hats  removed  them,  and  all 
listened  reverently  while  his  still  resonant  voice 
rose  in  an  earnest  prayer  to  the  god  of  the  chase 
to  —  send  us  more  rabbits!  The  old  men  took 
from  secret  recesses  the  quaint  little  hunting- 
fetich  —  a  stone  image  of  the  mountain  lion,  most 
successful  of  hunters  —  and  did  it  reverence. 


62  A  PUEBLO  RABBIT-HUNT. 

"Hai-ko!"  shouted  the  captain  at  last,  and  off 
went  the  divergent  lines  again,  over  the  ridge  and 
down  the  gentle  ten-mile  slope  toward  the  foot  of 
the  Hill  of  the  Wind.  At  the  head  of  the  loping 
horses  of  each  file  ran  the  boys,  tireless  and  agile 
as  young  deer,  and  they  kept  their  place  during 
the  seven  hours  of  the  hunt.  The  old  men  sat  as 
usual  in  a  row,  while  the  long  human  line  ran  out 
on  either  side,  tying  a  sentinel  knot  in  itself  at 
every  few  rods.  The  ground  was  now  more  favor 
able.  The  sage  and  chaparro  were  taller  and 
more  abundant,  and  where  the  shelter  was  so  good 
there  were  sure  to  be  rabbits.  There  is  a  peculiar 
fascination  in  watching  those  long  arms  as  they 
reach  out  for  the  "surrounds."  When  I  have  a 
good  horse  I  always  seek  an  elevation  whence  to 
take  in  the  whole  inspiring  scene,  and  then  gallop 
back  to  the  cordon  in  time  to  be  "in  at  the 
death  " ;  but  to-day  I  had  to  be  content  if  I  could 
keep  Bayo  in  the  procession  at  all.  But  even 
from  the  level  it  was  a  gallant  sight,  —  that  long 
array  of  far-off  centaurs  skirting  the  plain,  unmis 
takably  Indian  in  every  motion,  the  free  rise  and 
fall  of  the  bronco  lope,  distinguishable  even  when 
the  figures  had  dwindled  to  wee  specks  on  the 
horizon;  and  before  and  beside  me  swart  faces 
and  stalwart  forms,  sweeping  on  in  the  whirlwind 
of  our  hoof-beats. 

The  second  "  surround "  was  much  larger  than 
the  first,  the  sentinels  having  been  placed  at  greater 


A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT.  63 

intervals.  Just  as  the  ends  of  the  three-mile  circle 
came  together,  a  gaunt  jack  sprang  from  the  earth 
at  our  very  feet,  and  dashed  through  the  line 
before  the  hunters  could  even  grasp  their  clubs. 
Ambrosio,  a  young  Apollo  in  bronze,  wheeled  his 
big  gray  like  a  flash,  and  dashed  in  pursuit  —  so 
quickly,  indeed,  that  I  had  to  throw  my  gun  in 
the  air  to  avoid  giving  him  a  dose  of  shot  intended 
for  the  rabbit;  whereupon  the  waggish  old  ex- 
governor,  Vicente,  called  out  to  me:  "  Cuidado!1 
This  is  not  to  hunt  Cristianos,  but  rabbits ! " 

Ambrosio's  mount  was  one  of  the  fleetest  in  the 
pueblo,  victor  in  many  a  hard-fought  gallo  race ; 
and  now  he  went  thundering  down  the  plain, 
devouring  distance  with  mighty  leaps,  and  plainly 
glorying  in  the  mad  race  as  much  as  did  his  rider. 
Ambrosio  sat  like  a  carven  statue,  save  that  the 
club  poised  in  his  right  hand  waved  to  and  fro 
tentatively,  and  his  long  jet  hair  streamed  back 
upon  the  wind.  Todillo  had  found  a  foeman 
worthy  of  his  hoofs.  Grandly  as  his  sinewy  legs 
launched  him  across  the  llano,  away  ahead  gleamed 
that  strange  animate  streak  of  gray-on-white,  whose 
wonderful  "  pats "  seemed  never  to  touch  the 
ground.  And  when  the  thunderous  pursuer  was 
gaining,  and  I  could  see  —  for  /  was  chasing  not 
the  rabbit  but  the  sight  —  that  Ambrosio  drew 
back  his  arm,  there  came  a  marvellous  flash  to  the 

1  Be  careful  I 


64  A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT. 

left,  and  there  was  the  jack,  flying  at  right  angles 
to  his  course  of  an  instant  before,  and  now  broad 
side  toward  us ;  I  say  "  flying,"  for  so  it  seemed. 
The  eye  could  scarcely  be  convinced  that  that 
astounding  apparition  sailing  along  above  the 
dwarfed  brush  was  really  a  quadruped,  forced  to 
gather  momentum  from  mother  earth  like  the  rest 
of  us.  It  appeared  rather  some  great  hawk,  skim 
ming  close  to  the  ground  in  chase  of  its  scurrying 
prey.  Try  as  I  would,  my  eyes  refused  to  realize 
that  that  motion  was  not  flight  but  a  series  of 
incredible  bounds. 

There  is  none  of  this  fascinating  illusion  about 
the  ordinary  run  of  the  jack-rabbit ;  and  yet,  fol 
lowing  one  in  the  snow,  when  he  had  no  more 
pressing  pursuer  than  myself  on  foot,  I  have  meas 
ured  a  jump  of  twenty-two  feet.  What  one  can 
do  when  pressed  to  his  utmost,  I  have  never  been 
able  to  decide  definitely ;  but  it  is  much  more  than 
that. 

Had  Todillo  been  unused  to  the  sport,  the  race 
would  have  ended  then  and  there ;  but  he  knew 
rabbits  as  well  as  did  his  master.  If  he  could  not 
match  —  and  no  other  animal  ever  did  match  — 
the  supreme  grace  and  agility  with  which  his  pro 
voking  little  rival  had  doubled  on  the  course,  the 
tremendous  convulsion  of  strength  with  which  he 
swerved  and  followed  was  hardly  less  admirable. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  effort  must  have  broken  him 
in  twain. 


A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT.  65 

Again  the  tall  pursuer  was  gaining  on  the  pur 
sued.  Fifty  feet  —  forty-eight  —  forty-five  —  and 
Ambrosio  rose  high  in  his  stirrups,  his  long  arm 
flashed  through  the  air,  and  a  dark  streak  shot  out 
so  swiftly  that  for  an  instant  the  horse  seemed  to 
have  stopped,  so  easily  it  outsped  him.  And  in 
the  same  motion,  at  the  same  gallop,  Ambrosio  was 
swooping  low  from  his  saddle,  so  that  from  our 
side  we  could  see  only  his  left  arm  and  leg ;  and  in 
another  instant  was  in  his  seat  again,  swinging  the 
rabbit  triumphantly  overhead. 

We  galloped  back  to  the  "  surround,"  which  was 
slowly  closing  in,  and  now  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
across.  The  inclosed  brush  seemed  alive  with 
rabbits.  At  least  a  dozen  were  dashing  hither  and 
yon,  seeking  an  avenue  of  escape.  One  old  fellow 
in  the  centre  sat  up  on  his  haunches,  with  ears 
erect,  to  take  in  the  whole  situation.  But  his 
coolness  cost  him  dear.  "  Cuidado  !  "  came  a  yell 
from  across  the  circle ;  and  we  sprang  aside  just 
before  Bautisto's  rifle  flashed,  and  the  too  prudent 
rabbit  fell,  the  ball  passing  through  his  head  and 
singing  shrilly  by  us. 

Now  the  rabbits  began  to  grow  desperate,  and 
to  try  to  break  through  the  line  at  all  hazards.  As 
soon  as  one  was  seen  bearing  down  on  the  line,  the 
twenty  or  thirty  nearest  men  made  a  wild  rally 
toward  him.  Sometimes  he  would  double  away, 
and  sometimes  try  to  dodge  between  their  very 
legs.  Then  what  a  din  of  yells  went  up !  How 


66  A  PUEBLO  RABBIT-HUNT. 

the  clubs  went  whizzing  like  giant  hail !  Surely 
in  that  frantic  jam  of  madmen  something  besides 
the  rabbits  will  be  killed!  One  of  those  clubs 
would  brain  a  man  as  surely  as  it  would  crack  an 
egg-shell.  But  no  !  The  huddle  breaks,  the  yells 
die  out,  and  the  "  madmen  "  are  running  back  to 
their  places,  while  one  happy  boy  is  tying  a  long 
gray  something  behind  his  saddle.  No  one  is  even 
limping.  Not  a  shin  has  been  cracked  —  much  less 
a  head.  In  all  my  long  acquaintance  with  the 
Pueblos,  I  have  never  known  of  such  a  thing  as 
one  getting  hurt  even  in  the  most  furious  mel^e  of 
the  rabbit-drive.  Strangest  of  all,  there  is  never 
any  dispute  about  the  game.  They  always  know 
which  one  of  that  rain  of  clubs  did  the  work  — 
though  how  they  know,  is  beyond  my  comprehen 
sion. 

Yonder  is  another  rush.  The  first  club  thrown 
breaks  the  jack's  leg ;  and  realizing  his  desperate 
situation,  the  poor  creature  dives  into  the  basement 
door  of  his  tiny  brother,  the  cotton-tail  —  for  the 
jack  never  burrows,  and  never  trusts  himself  in  a 
hole  save  at  the  last  extremity.  Our  root-digger 
rushes  forward,  sticks  his  spade  in  the  hole  to  mark 
it,  and  resumes  his  clubs.  When  the  "  surround  " 
is  over,  he  will  come  back  to  dig  eight  or  ten  feet 
for  his  sure  victim. 

So  the  afternoon  wears  on.  Each  "  surround  " 
takes  a  little  over  half  an  hour,  and  each  now  nets 
the  hunters  from  ten  to  twenty  rabbits  —  mostly 


A  PUEBLO  BABBIT-HUNT.  67 

jacks,  with  now  and  then  a  fuzzy  cotton-tail. 
Once  in  a  while  a  jack  succeeds  in  slipping  through 
the  line,  and  is  off  like  the  wind.  But  after  him 
are  from  one  to  twenty  hunters ;  and  when  they 
come  back,  ten  minutes  or  half  an  hour  later,  with 
foaming  horses,  it  is  strange,  indeed,  if  the  fugitive 
is  not  dangling  at  the  back  of  one  of  them. 

On  the  slope  of  the  crater  we  strike  a  "  bunch  " 
of  quail,  —  the  beautiful  quail  of  the  Southwest, 
with  their  slate-colored  coats,  and  dainty,  fan-like 
crests,  —  and  not  one  escapes.  I  have  seen  the 
unerring  club  bring  one  down  even  from  a  flock 
on  the  wing. 

The  "  surrounds  "  are  now  making  eastward,  and 
each  one  brings  us  nearer  home.  It  has  been  a 
good  day's  work  —  thirty-five  miles  of  hard  riding, 
and  fourteen  "  surrounds  "  ;  and  on  the  cantle  of 
every  saddle  bumps  a  big  mass  of  gray  fur. 

The  evening  shadows  grow  deeper  in  the  canons 
of  the  far-off  Sandias,  chasing  the  last  ruddy  glow 
up  and  up  the  scarred  cliffs.  And  in  the  soft  New 
Mexican  twilight  our  long  cavalcade  goes  ringing 
down  the  hard  Rio  Puerco  road  toward  our  quaint, 
green-rimmed  village  beside  "  the  fierce  river  of  the 
North." 


PABLO   APODACA'S   BEAK. 


PABLO  APODACA  was  the  strongest  man  in  New 
Mexico  in  his  day.  That  was  thirty  years  ago ; 
but  still,  in  the  quaint  little  Mexican  towns,  if  you 
join  the  lazy  groups  squatted  against  the  brown 
adobe  walls,  smoking  their  corn-husk  cigarettes, 
and  ask  the  old  men  who  is  the  strongest  wrestler 
thereabout,  they  will  say  :  — 

"  Who  knows  ?  Juan  can  knock  down  a  horse 
with  his  fist,  and  Domingo  can  carry  the  heaviest 
cross  of  the  Penitentes  all  day ;  but  you  ought  to 
have  known  Pablo  Apodaca !  He  was  the  strongest 
man  that  ever  was.  May  God  give  his  soul  rest !  " 

If  Pablo  could  have  been  seen  in  Boston  or  New 
York,  the  whole  police  force  of  the  city  hardly 
would  have  sufficed  to  keep  a  mob  of  astonished 
boys  from  following  in  his  wake  whenever  he  went 
upon  the  street,  for  they  never  saw  such  a  queer 
sight  as  he  would  have  presented. 

A  short,  heavy  man,  whose  long,  black  hair  and 
bushy  beard  hid  his  great  neck  so  that  his  head 
seemed  grown  fast  to  his  shoulders  ;  a  chest  like  a 
barrel,  and  legs  so  bowed  that  his  friends  used  to 
say  that  he  could  not  hold  his  baby  in  his  lap  with- 
68 


PABLO  APOD  AC  A' S  BEAR.  69 

out  letting  it  fall  through  ;  a  big  Mexican  blanket 
falling  nearly  to  his  knees  on  all  sides,  and  with 
his  head  stuck  through  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  it ; 
flapping  pantaloons  of  rough  cloth,  and  feet  covered 
with  clumsy  teguas  —  he  certainly  was  a  queer 
object.  And  when  he  thrust  out  his  arms  from 
under  the  blanket,  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves  —  as 
he  was  rather  fond  of  doing  —  the  full,  blue  veins 
stood  out  like  knotted  whipcords  over  great  gnarls 
and  lumps  of  muscle  that  Atlas  himself  might  have 
envied.  • 

Pablo  lived  in  Cebolleta,  one  of  the  tiniest  towns 
in  New  Mexico  ;  but  small  as  it  is,  none  has  a  more 
heroic  history.  Pablo's  father  was  one  of  the 
thirty  Mexican  men  who  came  from  the  Rio 
Grande  with  their  families  in  the  year  1800,  and 
founded  their  little  town,  seventy-five  miles  west 
of  any  other  settlement,  and  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  murderous  Navajos.  They  built  a  strong  stone 
wall,  ten  feet  high,  all  around  the  few  houses,  and 
had  but  one  gate  thereto  —  a  clumsy  but  lasting 
affair  of  thick  planks  hewn  from  the  trunk  of  an 
enormous  pine.  Several  times  the  hamlet  was  be 
sieged  by  Indians,  but  the  brave  people,  behind 
their  stout  ramparts,  held  the  savages  at  bay. 

It  required  brave  people  to  hold  such  a  place. 
For  more  than  half  a  century  the  little  town  rarely 
knew  a  month  of  peace,  and  in  1850  the  very 
bravest  and  best  of  its  soldiers  were  massacred  in 
their  sleep  at  San  Miguel  by  the  Apaches  ;  but  the 


70  PABLO  APOD  AC  AS  BEAE. 

survivors  remained  at  their  post,  and  Cebolleta 
still  dreams  away  on  the  rugged  flank  of  Mt. 
San  Mateo,  the  ruins  of  its  old  wall  crumbling 
around  it. 

It  was  among  such  scenes  of  danger  that  Pablo 
grew  up,  along  with  a  little  company  of  other 
self-reliant  young  Mexicans.  It  would  have  been 
hard  to  tell  who  was  bravest,  but  as  to  strength 
there  was  no  question.  Pablo  could  lift  more  and 
carry  more  than  any  other  man  in  the  town,  and 
when  it  came  to  wrestling,  no  one  cared  to  try  his 
skill  twice.  No  matter  how  expert  they  were, 
when  once  that  iron  clutch  fastened  upon  them, 
they  were  powerless  as  children;  anpl  Pablo  was 
as  quick  as  he  was  strong.  Then  he  began  to 
travel  to  the  feasts  with  which  the  various  hamlets 
celebrated  the  days  of  their  patron  saints,  and  in 
the  wrestling-matches,  which  were  part  of  the 
sport,  Pablo  made  all  comers  bite  the  dust.  So  by 
the  time  he  was  a  mature  man,  his  name  was  a 
proverb  throughout  the  Province  of  New  Mexico 
—  which  had  not  yet  become  a  territory  of  the 
United  States. 

All  this  exercise,  with  the  simple  food  he  ate  and 
the  rugged  outdoor  life  he  led,  kept  his  knotted 
muscles  growing  larger  and  harder.  When  he 
was  thirty  years  of  age,  he  used  to  catch  a  five- 
year-old  steer  by  the  horns,  and  hold  the  great 
brute  so  firmly  that  it  seemed  as  if  lashed  to  some 
mighty  oak. 


PABLO  APODACA'S  BEAR.  71 

Strength  is  a  quality  that  always  commands 
admiration,  and,  rightly  used,  ought  also  to  com 
mand  respect ;  but  Pablo  came  to  have  too  much 
strength  for  his  own  good.  That  is  hardly  a  fair 
way  to  put  it,  either,  for  it  was  not  the  strength 
which  was  at  fault,  but  rather  Pablo's  own  igno 
rance  how  to  use  it  wisely.  From  never  meeting 
an  opponent  that  he  could  not  conquer,  he  came 
to  believe  that  nothing  could  stand  against  him ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would  cheerfully  have 
undertaken  a  wrestle  with  a  locomotive,  if  they 
had  had  such  strange  monsters  in  New  Mexico 
then  in  place  of  the  clumsy  old  ox-carts. 

In  his  young  manhood  Pablo  married  a  pretty 
Mexican  girl,  after  her  father  had  kept  him  at 
work  in  dangerous  expeditions  for  a  whole  year  to 
see  if  he  was  as  industrious  as  he  was  strong. 
They  lived  together  happily.  Pablo  tended  his 
little  flock  of  sheep,  while  Juanita  carded  the 
wool,  wove  homely  but  durable  blankets,  carpets 
and  clothing,  and  attended  to  her  other  household 
duties. 

In  one  of  his  campaigns  Pablo  had  captured  a 
strong  Navajo  girl,  and  brought  her  home  as  a 
present  for  his  prospective  bride  —  as  the  custom 
of  New  Mexico  then  required  all  young  men  to  do 
before  they  could  expect  to  marry.  When  Pablo 
was  away  fighting  the  Indians — which  was  a  great 
deal  of  the  time  —  Juanita  and  the  Navajo  girl, 
who  had  grown  to  be  very  fond  of  each  other,  took 


72  PABLO  APOD  AC  AS  BEAR. 

all  the  care  of  things  at  home.  A  great  many 
white  men  would  turn  pale  at  the  thought  of 
doing  what  those  two  brave  young  women  did  — 
for  life  on  the  Southwestern  frontier  in  those  days 
was  full  alike  of  hardship  and  of  danger. 

As  the  years  went  by  the  little  household  grew. 
If  you  could  have  stepped  into  the  small  plaza,  or 
square,  on  which  all  the  houses  of  Cebolleta  faced, 
you  might  have  seen  Pablo  sitting  in  his  doorway 
mending  his  teguas  with  an  awl  and  some  threads 
of  deer-sinew.  The  soles  were  of  rawhide,  the 
uppers  of  sheepskin  with  the  wool  inside.  Near 
him  Juanita  was  very  sure  to  be,  perhaps  twisting 
her  wool  for  weaving,  or  scrubbing  blue  corn  into 
a  pulp  on  the  lava  metate.  And  around  the  door 
played  a  trio  of  strong,  healthy  boys,  with  whom 
Pablo  —  good-natured  as  such  strong  men  gener 
ally  are  —  sometimes  took  a  rough  romp. 

One  time  when  the  Navajos  were  quiet,  Pablo 
took  it  into  his  head  to  stroll  over  the  mountain 
to  the  newer  village  of  San  Mateo,  and  to  take 
his  oldest  boy  with  him.  Few  American  boys  of 
twelve  years  would  have  enjoyed  tramping  twenty- 
two  miles  over  that  fearfully  rough  and  steep  foot 
path,  but  Pablito,  besides  being  delighted  with  the 
rare  chance  to  go  anywhere  with  the  father  of 
whom  he  was  so  proud,  was  a  sturdy  boy,  and  not 
easily  tired.  So  while  Pablo  was  carefully  loading 
his  ponderous  escopeta  —  as  the  Mexican  flint-lock 
musket  was  called  —  Pablito  poked  his  head 


PABLO  APOD  AC  A1  S  BEAR.  73 

through  the  gay  red  blanket  his  mother  had  woven 
for  him,  and  filled  a  buckskin  pouch  with  pounded 
dry  meat  and  a  sweet  flour  made  from  pop-corn. 
The  meat  was  all  ready  to  be  eaten ;  and  by  mix 
ing  the  pinole  with  water  they  would  have  a  sort 
of  sweet  mush,  itself  nutritious  enough  to  support 
life  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  a  cool,  fresh  day  in  May  —  May  days  in 
Cebolleta,  over  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea- 
level,  are  always  cool  —  and  Pablo  and  Pablito 
were  in  great  spirits  as  they  climbed  the  steep, 
winding  path  up  the  mesa  or  tableland.  Pablo 
had  never  been  so  strong  as  he  was  that  day,  and 
he  knew  it.  The  deep  satisfaction  of  his  lungs, 
the  conscious  swelling  of  his  muscles,  all  told  him. 
He  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  pluck  one  of  those 
gnarled  cedars  up  by  the  roots  and  hurl  it  far  down 
the  mountain. 

Up,  up  they  climbed.  The  cedars  gave  place  to 
noble  pines.  Though  the  sun  was  at  its  height, 
the  air  was  growing  cooler;  and  upon  the  giant 
peak  at  their  right  they  could  see  the  vast  white 
drifts  which  would  lie  there  until  the  earlier  heat 
of  July.  The  path  was  fearfully  rugged.  It 
wound  around  enormous  bowlders,  dived  into  dark 
ravines,  and  struggled  up  precipitous  banks. 

A  needle-pointed  dagger  of  the  soaproot  went 
through  Pablito's  clumsy  tegua  and  deep  into  his 
foot;  but  his  herculean  father  took  him  upon  his 
back  as  if  he  had  been  a  feather,  and  strode  on. 


74        PABLO  APOD  AC  AS  BEAE. 

They  were  passing  the  brink  of  a  great  bluff, 
nearly  three  hundred  feet  high  and  very  precipi 
tous,  when  a  turn  in  the  narrow  path  brought 
them  face  to  face  with  a  young  grizzly  bear  cub. 
Pablo  dropped  Pablito  gently  from  his  back,  and 
gave  him  the  ponderous  musket,  which  he  could 
hardly  hold  up. 

"  Hold,  my  boy,"  said  Pablo,  "  and  I  will  tie  that 
cub  so  that  we  may  get  him  when  we  come  back. 
He  is  young  enough  to  tame." 

Pulling  two  strong  buckskin  thongs  from  his 
bolsa,  he  rushed  upon  the  cub,  threw  it,  and  began 
to  knot  its  four  clumsy  paws  together.  The  cub 
scratched  and  snapped  like  a  little  fiend,  but  Pablo's 
gigantic  strength  enabled  him  to  draw  up  the 
knots,  which  he  wet  with  his  mouth,  that  they 
might  tighten  as  they  dried. 

But  he  had  not  tied  the  young  grizzly's  mouth, 
and  from  those  little  long  jaws  there  issued  a  steady 
shriek.  It  is  one  of  the  strangest  sounds  in  nature, 
the  yelling  of  an  enraged  bear  cub  —  a  grotesque 
mixture  of  pig-squeal,  hoarse  steam  whistle,  sputter, 
and  bark. 

Other  ears  heard  it  than  Pablo's  and  Pablito's. 
Suddenly  the  boy  screamed,  "  La  osa  !  La  osa !  " 
There  was  a  great  scuffling  in  the  gravel  around 
the  point  and  a  wild  rush. 

Before  Pablo  could  stand  straight,  the  huge  old 
mother-bear  had  dealt  him  a  cuff  on  the  back  of 
the  neck  that  sent  him  spinning.  He  was  up  again 


PABLO  APODACAS  BEAE.  75 

like  a  cat,  dazed  but  undismayed,  and  in  a  flash 
the  shaggy  monster  was  again  upon  him,  but  now 
face  to  face. 

There  was  no  time  to  run ;  and  Pablo  could  not 
get  his  musket,  so,  with  the  instinct  of  the  prac 
tised  wrestler,  he  ducked  and  caught  a  grip  in  the 
bear's  rough  fur.  He  hugged  her  in  a  grip  that 
might  have  killed  an  ordinary  man  —  himself  so 
close  that  the  bear  could  not  strike  him  —  and  kept 
his  head  well  down  out  of  reach  of  the  creature's 
great  jaws. 

I  fancy  the  bear  was  surprised  by  this  unusual 
state  of  affairs,  but  she  kept  her  thoughts  to  her 
self.  Throwing  her  huge,  short  "  arms  "  around 
Pablo,  she  returned  his  hug  with  interest.  He  had 
grappled  the  strongest  men  scores  of  times,  but 
never  had  he  felt  such  a  pressure  as  that.  It 
seemed  to  be  crushing  his  very  life  out.  But 
Pablo's  heart  was  as  strong  as  his  body,  and  he 
never  thought  of  giving  up.  He  put  forth  all  his 
gigantic  strength,  till  the  blue  veins  upon  his  fore 
head  stood  out  like  strong  cords.  He  swayed  his 
huge  foe  from  side  to  side  as  if  her  eight  hundred 
pounds  had  been  but  a  man's  weight.  He  tried 
to  trip  her,  and  did  once  fling  her  upon  her  side. 
But  the  odds  of  weight  —  and  they  were  fearful 
odds  —  were  against  him,  and  he  found  his  breath 
failing  under  his  own  enormous  efforts  and  that 
superhuman  hug.  And  still  he  struggled.  In  that 
blind,  savage  mele*e  they  tore  up  the  rocky  path, 


76  PABLO  APOD  AC  AS  BEAR. 

and  broke  off  a  young  pine ;  and  on  a  sudden,  over 
stepping  the  narrow  battle-field,  man  and  bear 
went  rolling  down  the  precipitous  bluff,  locked  in 
deadly  embrace. 

Pablito  had  watched  the  fight  with  breathless 
interest,  and  with  firm  faith  in  the  triumph  of  his 
father.  But  now  he  was  horror-stricken  ;  and  for 
getting  his  pierced  foot,  he  dashed  down  the  hill, 
still  hugging  the  musket  with  both  arms,  tumbling 
headlong,  cutting  himself  on  the  sharp  rocks,  but 
bouncing  up  again  like  a  rubber  ball,  and  dashing 
on. 

Pablo  and  the  bear  had  stopped  rolling.  The 
three  hundred  feet  of  tumble  had  cut  Pablo's  head 
fearfully,  and  half  stunned  him.  His  great  strength 
was  almost  gone,  and  he  could  no  longer  strain 
himself  to  such  close  quarters  as  to  escape  the 
bear's  jaws.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  feebly 
fighting  the  animal  off  with  his  right  arm.  The 
left  had  been  crushed  by  the  bear's  jaws,  and  lay 
twisted  beside  him.  Above  him  was  the  enraged 
animal,  her  jaws  dripping  blood,  and  her  wicked 
little  eyes  snapping  like  firebrands. 

"  My  boy ! "  Pablo  called,  in  a  faint,  ghostly 
voice  the  boy  hardly  knew,  "  Shoot !  Shoot  I  " 

"  But  I  am  afraid  of  shooting  you !  I  don't 
know  how  ! "  shrieked  Pablito,  sobbing.  The  light 
weapons  of  to-day  were  unknown  then,  and  Pablito 
had  never  fired  a  gun  in  his  life. 

"  Don't  mind  me.     Put  the  muzzle  to  her  side 


PABLO  APODACAS  BEAR.  77 

and  fire,"  came  Pablo's  answer,  so  faintly  it  could 
just  be  heard.  With  a  mighty  effort  of  the  will 
he  struck  the  bear  a  blow  on  the  nose  that  made 
her  snort  with  pain  —  to  distract  her  attention 
from  the  boy. 

Pablito  was  trembling  and  sobbing,  but  he  was 
of  the  stuff  that  men  are  made  of.  He  pulled  back 
the  heavy  hammer,  lifted  the  muzzle  painfully, 
held  it  forward  till  it  touched  the  shaggy  fur,  and 
pulled  the  trigger. 

The  bear  lurched  heavily  forward,  bit  a  great 
mouthful  out  of  the  earth,  struggled  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  lay  motionless.  The  ounce  ball  had 
passed  through  her  heart,  and  also  through  Pablo's 
right  thigh. 

Pablito  ran  madly  down  the  long  mountain  side 
for  help ;  and  soon  a  score  of  rough  men  hastened 
to  the  spot,  and  carried  Pablo  home  on  a  rude  litter 
of  boughs.  For  weeks  the  herb-wise  old  women 
who  helped  Juanita  to  care  for  him  were  often  in 
doubt  whether  that  faint  pulse  had  not  stopped. 
And  then  his  iron  constitution  asserted  itself.  The 
pulse  grew  stronger,  the  yawning  cavities  in  face 
and  chest  began  to  close,  and  at  last  Pablo 
Apodaca  was  a  well  man. 

But  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  hobbled  outside 
his  own  door,  the  neighboring  children  fled  in  ter 
ror  at  the  sight  of  the  scarred,  disfigured  face  that 
had  been  so  strong  and  ruddy.  His  nose  was  gone ; 
his  cheeks  and  chin  and  forehead  were  robbed  of 
their  covering. 


78  PABLO  APODACAS  BEAM. 

Pablo  never  wrestled  again,  though  he  lived  for 
several  years  longer.  But  his  fame  still  lasts. 
And  if  you  were  to  happen  into  Cebolleta  of  a 
summer's  evening  you  might  see  Pablito  —  now 
grown  to  manhood  —  telling  a  black-eyed  boy 
"about  your  grandfather,  and  the  time  I  killed 
my  first  bear." 


THE   BOX   S   KOUND-UP. 


"  So  yo'  want  a  job  on  the  range,  Santiago  ?  " 

"  Si,  Senor.  My  father  too  sick,  and  I  have  to 
leave  home  to  gain  money." 

"  But  what  can  yo'  do  ?  It's  mighty  hard  work 
yer,  V  we  can't  have  no  loafers.  Yo're  lame,  'n' 
I  don't  see  how  yo'  cud  get  along." 

"  Pero,  Senor,  if  I  am  lame  of  the  feet  I  am  not 
lame  of  the  saddle.  Try  me,  and  see  if  I  am  not 
as  good  there  as  any." 

They  stepped  outside  the  little  stone  ranch- 
house  of  the  Box  S  ranch  on  the  long  eastern 
slope  of  the  Zuni  Mountains.  Santiago's  wiry 
little  Navajo  pony  was  standing  patiently  outside, 
"hitched"  by  throwing  the  reins  over  his  head 
and  letting  them  hang  towards  the  ground.  Juvero 
was  spirited  enough,  but  it  was  part  of  his  educa 
tion  to  require  no  securer  anchorage  than  this. 
Santiago  could  leave  him  thus  in  the  middle  of  the 
plain  and  be  gone  half  a  day,  sure  that  on  his 
return  he  would  find  Juvero  in  the  self-same  spot. 

Now,  tossing  back  the  reins,  Santiago  sprang 
lightly  into  the  saddle.  A  word  to  Juvero,  and 
off  they  went  like  the  wind.  Awkward  and  sham- 

79 


80  THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP. 

bling  enough  the  ragged  boy  had  seemed  afoot, 
but  now  he  was  fairly  transfigured.  Lithe  and 
confident,  he  sat  his  saddle  like  a  Comanche,  now 
erect  and  moveless  as  if  a  very  part  of  the  horse, 
now  swinging  low  to  scoop  up  a  handful  of  sand, 
or  standing  at  full  height  as  Juvero  clattered 
along  the  valley.  Then  turning,  he  galloped  down 
towards  "  the  old  man  "  —  as  the  manager  of  a 
ranch  is  always  familiarly  called  by  his  men  — 
and  reined  Juvero  back  on  his  haunches  not  six 
feet  away. 

"  There's  noth'n'  the  matter  'th  yo'r  ridin',  San 
tiago  !  Hain't  seen  better  sense  I  struck  the  Ter 
ritory.  'F  yo'  can  rope  's  good  's  yo'  ride,  I  don't 
want  no  better  boy.  There  comes  Anse  V  Jim, 
now,  'th  three  wild  steers  fr'm  Agua  Frio.  Get 
out  yo'r  lariat  V  lemme  see  what  yo'  can  do." 

Santiago  untied  the  thong  which  held  his  coiled 
reata  at  the  saddle-bow,  ran  out  the  plaited  raw 
hide  through  the  honda  (noose-loop)  and,  with  the 
long  noose  trailing  behind,  rode  out  to  meet  the 
two  big  Texans  who  were  driving  in  the  steers. 
As  he  approached,  one  of  the  wild  broadhorns 
lunged  away  to  the  right  and  galloped  down  the 
vega.  Juvero  came  around  like  a  top  and  was  off 
after  the  steer  like  an  arrow.  Now  the  long  loop 
was  circling  slowly  above  Santiago's  head.  The 
steer  doubled  and  veered  as  the  pursuit  grew  hot, 
and  his  pace  was  tremendous,  but  Juvero  matched 
his  every  turn  with  wonderful  quickness.  Sud- 


THE  BOX  8  BOUND-UP.  81 

denly  the  rope  shot  out  horizontally,  the  broad 
noose  settled  squarely  over  the  spreading  horns, 
and  Juvero  dropped  to  a  rocklike  halt,  all  four 
feet  braced  firmly.  The  rope  had  a  double  turn 
around  the  saddle-bow,  and  the  lumbering  steer, 
thus  abruptly  "  snubbed,"  whirled  a  full  somersault 
and  struck  the  sand  with  a  great  thump.  Before 
he  could  kick  twice  Santiago  was  off  his  pony  with 
the  loosened  rope,  with  which  he  deftly  knotted 
the  four  legs  of  his  captive  together,  and  then, 
shambling  back  to  Juvero,  rode  to  "  the  old  man." 

"  Good's  old  wheat !  Jes'  two  minutes  fr'm 
start  to  tie !  Thet's  jes'  the  kind  o'  boy  we  want 
on  the  Box  S.  Hev  yo'r  stuff  here  to-morrow,  V 
yo'  shall  hev  a  steady  job." 

"  Grracias,  Senor  !  To-morrow  I  come,"  and  San 
tiago  galloped  away  towards  the  little  adobe  hut 
in  San  Rafael  which  he  called  home. 

A  week  later  the  Box  S  outfit  was  starting  out 
on  the  round-up,  which  in  New  Mexico  generally 
begins  with  July.  The  big  canvas-covered  "  chuck- 
wagon  "  was  grumbling  over  the  jagged  lava  frag 
ments  that  strewed  the  road  to  Agua  Frio.  On 
the  high  seat  was  perched  "  Old  Jimmy  "  Crane, 
the  best  cook  in  a  hundred  miles,  whose  "  frying- 
pan  bread "  and  other  round-up  fare  was  famous 
throughout  the  Territory.  Fastened  in  the  rear 
of  the  wagon  was  a  huge  box  —  Jimmy's  pantry 
—  and  in  the  front  were  a  dozen  bundles  of  blan 
kets,  each  rolled  in  a  canvas  wagon-sheet,  which 


82  THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP. 

served  to  keep  the  sleeper  dry  above  and  below. 
Scattered  along  the  road  for  several  miles  before 
and  behind  were  cowboys  loping  by  twos  and 
threes  —  some  thirty  men  of  them  in  all.  At 
Agua  Frio,  the  first  camp,  they  would  be  joined 
by  nearly  as  many  more  —  "  boys  "  who  had  come, 
some  of  them  two  hundred  miles,  to  gather  at  the 
round-up,  and  drive  home  such  of  their  cattle 
as  had  strayed  so  far  as  the  Box  S  range.  A 
rough-looking  set  they  were ;  mostly  tall,  brawny 
Texans,  long-haired,  unshaven,  with  napping  som 
breros  on  their  heads,  clumsy  leathern  chapparejos 
over  their  blue  overalls,  boots  with  high,  pointed 
heels,  and  each  with  a  big  six-shooter  leering  from 
the  scabbard  on  his  cartridge-belt.  And  yet,  with 
all  their  rough  appearance  and  rough  speech  —  a 
queer  dialect  of  Southwestern  slang  delivered  with 
the  Southern  utterance  learned  from  negro  "mam 
mies" —  they  had  many  manly  traits.  Santiago 
found  himself  treated  with  unsentimental  but  prac 
tical  kindness.  He  was  the  only  Mexican  in  the 
"outfit,"  and  while  Texans  are  not  overfond  of 
Mexicans,  his  youth,  his  lameness,  and  his  really 
wonderful  skill  with  horse  and  reata  won  him  all 
the  consideration  he  could  have  desired. 

It  was  a  little  before  sundown  when  they  camped 
at  Agua  Frio.  Santiago  thought  he  had  never 
seen  so  beautiful  a  place.  Away  up  near  the  top 
of  the  Zuni  Mountains  lay  this  tiny  green  valley, 
whose  grass  was  already  knee-deep.  At  the  upper 


THE  BOX  8  ROUND-UP.  83 

end  rose  a  low,  black  wall  of  indescribable  rugged- 
ness.  From  the  strange  bowl-peak  to  the  north  a 
stream  of  liquid  rock  had  poured  roaring  down 
the  valley  unnumbered  centuries  before,  until, 
spent  and  cooling,  the  fiery  river  had  stopped 
short  here,  its  last  wave  frozen  to  jet  rock  before 
it  could  curl  and  break  upon  the  smooth  slope 
below.  Where  huge  air-bubbles  had  formed  in 
the  lava  were  now  dark,  ragged  caves ;  and  from 
one  in  the  very  centre  of  the  wall  poured  a  strong, 
clear  rivulet,  cold  as  ice,  which  fed  the  valley,  and 
gave  it  its  name  of  Agua  Frio  ("cold  water"). 

The  "  chuck-wagon  "  drew  up  beside  the  spring, 
and  its  four  powerful  mules  —  now  hobbled  by 
their  forelegs  with  Navajo  manillas  of  twisted  raw 
hide  —  were  turned  loose  to  graze.  The  door  of 
the  big  box  in  the  back  of  the  wagon  was  let 
down,  forming  a  table,  and  Jimmy's  pots  and 
pans  were  huddled  thereon  in  preparation  for 
supper. 

"  Hullo,  greaser ! "  called  a  coarse  voice  from 
the  knot  of  men  up  in  the  edge  of  the  pines,  where 
they  were  stretching  reatas  from  trunk  to  trunk  to 
form  a  corral  for  the  horses. 

Santiago  started.  He  had  never  before  been 
called  by  that  opprobrious  name,  which  is  used 
only  by  rough  and  mannerless  Americans  in  speak 
ing  of  Mexicans.  A  stalwart  Texas  six-footer  of 
hard  face  stepped  out  from  the  knot  of  cowboys 
and  swaggered  down  towards  the  spring.  He 


84  THE  BOX  8  BOUND-UP. 

was  one  of  the  newcomers  from  a  distant  Arizona 
ranch. 

"Wot  yo'  duin'  yer?"  he  demanded  gruffly. 
"Down  on  our  range  we  don't  low  no  greasers 
'round.  Yo'  best  skip  fr'm  yer.  I  cain't  bear 
no  greaser,  nohow." 

"I  am  not  one  greaser,"  said  Santiago  quietly 
but  proudly.  He  knew  that,  poor  as  he  was,  the 
blood  that  ran  in  his  veins  was  that  of  one  of  the 
bravest  of  the  Spanish  heroes  who  had  conquered 
the  New  World  more  than  three  centuries  before. 
Though  that  blood  boiled  now  at  the  insolence  of 
the  Texan,  Santiago  had  learned  unusual  self-con 
trol  for  his  years,  and  continued  quietly :  — 

"  I  am  work  for  Senor  Hall.  I  am  right  to  be 
here.  Perhaps  I  am  as  good  vaquero  as  you." 

"Don't  yo'  give  me  none  o'  yo'r  back  talk," 
shouted  the  bully  with  an  oath ;  "  'r  I'll  shoot  yo' 
so  full  o'  holes  yo'  cain't  throw  a  shadow."  And 
he  reached  his  hand  back  to  his  heavy  revolver. 
But  just  then  the  coffee-pot  fell  clattering  upon 
the  ground,  and  old  Jimmy  had  caught  his  Win 
chester  from  its  hooks  alongside  his  pantry. 

"  Yo'  Bill  Buxton !  'F  yo'  monkey  'th  thet  boy, 
I'll  give  the  sun  a  chance  to  tan  yo'r  fool  brains. 
Cain't  yo'  never  mind  yo'r  own  self  'thout  pitchin' 
onto  somebody  smaller'n  yo'  be  ?  The  boy's  a  good 
boy,  V  he  shain't  be  buffalered  while  I'm  'round. 
Yo'  know  me  goin'  on  fifteen  year,  V  yo'  know  't 
I  know  yo're  a  coward  'n'  a  bully.  Yo'  hear  me  ?  " 


THE  BOX  S  BOUND-UP.  85 

Buxton  turned  without  a  word,  and  walked  back 
to  his  companions,  but  his  hard  face  wore  a  look 
of  awful  malignity.  All  the  evil  in  his  perverted 
nature  was  boiling  over  at  what  he  deemed  an  insult 
and  a  thwarting  of  his  authority. 

Before  sunrise  the  next  morning  the  little  gray 
mounds  scattered  here  and  there  among  the  pines 
began  to  heave.  From  each  crawled  out  a  tousled 
cowboy,  who  speedily  made  his  mound  into  a  fat, 
gray  roll  and  tossed  it  into  the  front  of  the  wagon. 
While  Jimmy's  kettles  were  singing  over  the  hot 
little  fire  the  boys  were  saddling  their  horses  with 
the  fifty-pound  "  cow-saddles  "  necessary  for  such 
heavy  work  as  theirs  —  in  which  the  responsibility 
of  not  only  the  dead  weight,  but  the  momentum, 
too,  of  a  ponderous  steer  might  at  any  moment  be 
thrown  on  the  horn,  or  the  tremendous  slow  strain 
of  hauling  a  "bogged"  animal  from  a  shoulder- 
deep  quicksand  be  trusted  to  the  same  little  knob 
of  wood  and  iron.  Some,  holding  a  reluctant 
hoof  between  their  knees,  were  replacing  a  lost 
shoe,  and  others  were  whipping  out  their  reatas  to 
evict  stray  kinks. 

The  frying-pan  bread  —  a  crisp,  delicious  baking 
in  a  covered  iron  pot  set  beside  the  fire  —  was 
done.  So  were  the  fried  bacon,  the  boiled  beef 
and  potatoes,  and  the  violently  black  coffee.  The 
boys  squatted  on  the  ground  round  about,  each 
having  fished  from  the  dish  box  a  tin  plate,  cup, 
and  spoon,  and  an  iron  knife  and  fork,  and  then 


86  THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP. 

filled  his  dishes  from  the  various  pots.  Little 
time  was  wasted.  Rough  but  good-natured  jokes 
and  chaff  flew  around  the  circle,  and  no  one  seemed 
particularly  in  a  hurry ;  but  it  was  marvellous  how 
much  food  disappeared  in  so  little  time.  In  ten  min 
utes  the  last  plate  had  gone  into  Jimmy's  dishpan, 
and  the  last  cowboy  was  hobbling  away  to  his  pony, 
with  that  ridiculous  gait  caused  by  the  high-heeled 
boots.  A  couple  of  minutes  for  cinching  up  the 
broad  horse-hair  girths,  a  free  swing  into  the  sad 
dle,  and  away  they  clattered  up  the  rocky  slopes. 
John,  the  black-browed  range  foreman,  had  given 
them  their  specific  orders  the  night  before,  and  as 
they  left  camp  they  scattered  in  all  directions  to 
scour  the  woods  and  bring  all  the  cattle  to  a  com 
mon  point  on  the  shore  of  "  Big  Pond,"  where  the 
"  chuck-wagon  "  would  be  awaiting  them  at  night 
fall,  and  where  branding  would  begin  next  day. 

That  morning  Old  Jimmy  banged  his  dishes 
about  with  unnecessary  and  unusual  roughness, 
and  was  grumbling  to  himself  in  a  low  tone  which 
even  the  mules,  that  had  known  him  so  long,  could 
not  fully  catch.  Something  was  evidently  rubbing 
him  "agin'  the  grain,"  as  he  would  have  put  it. 
When  the  last  tin,  shiny  as  scrubbing  could  make 
it,  reflected  his  grizzled  face  from  the  shelf,  Jimmy 
slammed  up  the  hanging  door  and  locked  it  with 
an  air  that  was  almost  vicious,  and  sat  down  upon 
a  rock. 

"No,  I  cain't  say's  I  like  the  looks  on't  at  all ! " 


THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP.  87 

he  broke  out  with  such  vigor  that  old  Pete,  the 
off  leader,  pricked  up  his  ears  and  came  hopping 
down  the  slope  as  fast  as  his  hobbles  would  allow. 
"  I  heerd  John  tell  Santiaygo  to  take  in  the  lava 
beds  yan  side  o'  the  south  crater ;  V  ef  ever  any- 
thing  was  plain  'twus  thet  Bill  Buxton  lowed  to 
foller  him.  Tain't  fur  no  good,  nuther  —  after 
las'  night.  Santiaygo's  a  good  boy,  V  he  hain't 
got  no  gun  !  Thet's  wot !  I'll  jes'  light  out  theta- 
way  myself,  'n'  see 't  there  ain't  no  crooked  work." 
Jimmy  unslung  his  Winchester,  jumped  to 
Pete's  back  with  surprising  agility,  and  went  off 
on  a  lope.  Five  miles  west  on  the  stony  trail  he 
turned  to  the  left,  and  crossed  a  high  ridge  —  the 
Continental  Divide,  from  whose  eastern  slope  the 
rivulets  find  their  way  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and 
the  Atlantic  Ocean,  while  those  from  the  western 
slope  roll  through  burning  deserts  to  rest  at  last  in 
the  Gulf  of  California  and  the  blue  Pacific.  In  a 
few  moments  he  reached  the  foot  of  a  huge,  black 
cone  of  frightful  steepness,  rising  five  hundred  feet 
above  the  lofty  valley,  itself  eight  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  The  cone  looked  im 
possible  of  ascent,  but  Pete,  long  used  to  the  asperi 
ties  of  territorial  travel,  zigzagged  patiently  up,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  stood  panting  at  the  top.  They 
were  on  the  rim  of  a  stupendous  bowl,  whose  bottom 
lay  black  and  barren  nearly  a  thousand  feet  below 
—  the  crater  of  a  long-extinct  volcano.  The  bowl 
was  perfect  save  at  the  southern  side,  where  a  great 


88  THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP. 

V-shaped  gap  split  it  from  the  top  half  way  to  the 
bottom.  For  twenty  miles  along  the  dark  plain 
could  be  traced  the  black,  frozen  flood  which  had 
once  burst  its  mighty  dam  and  gone  seething  down 
the  valley. 

Jimmy  rode  slowly  around  the  narrow  rim,  —  in 
places  not  more  than  a  yard  wide,  —  looking  care 
fully  down  upon  the  surrounding  country;  but 
not  until  he  reached  the  very  brink  of  the  great 
gap,  and  looked  down  six  hundred  feet  to  the  black 
channel  which  the  lava  had  gouged  in  the  living 
rock,  did  he  see  the  object  of  his  search.  The  lava 
bed  was  there  three  or  four  hundred  feet  wide,  its 
sullen  crust  upheaved  in  strange  swells  and  fantas 
tic  crags  and  needles,  and  split  by  unfathomed 
crevices.  In  the  middle  was  the  great  rock-hewn 
gutter  of  the  outflow,  fifty  feet  deep  and  one  hun 
dred  wide.  From  his  high  perch  the  old  cook  could 
see  a  figure  sprawled  behind  a  boulder  in  the  bed 
of  this  channel.  The  waiting  attitude  was  one 
which  an  eye  so  practised  as  Jimmy's  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  interpreting,  and  that  glint  of  the  hot  sun 
on  something  in  the  right  hand  was  even  more  in 
telligible. 

"  The  coward ! "  muttered  Jimmy,  slipping  lightly 
off  Pete's  back,  and  creeping  cautiously  down  the 
.slope,  rifle  in  hand.  "He's  layin'  fur  Santiaygo 
—  knows  he'll  come  up  here  to  see  ef  ther's  cattle 
in  the  cafion.  Dassen't  even  tackle  thet  boy  to  his 
face  !  But  I'll  spile  his  dough  I  " 


THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP.  89 

Just  then  the  old  man  stopped  short  and  caught 
his  breath.  A  ragged,  brown,  shambling  figure 
stepped  from  behind  a  ridge  of  lava,  and  stood  look 
ing  up  and  down  the  cleft.  It  was  Santiago.  Not 
a  hundred  feet  away  was  the  rock  behind  which 
Bill  Buxton  was  lying.  Jimmy  opened  his  mouth 
to  yell  a  warning,  but  saw  the  boy  start  suddenly, 
look  intently  up  the  gully,  and  begin  running  out 
the  reata  which  he  was  carrying  coiled  in  his  hand. 
In  the  same  instant  Buxton  sprang  up  from  behind 
the  rock,  and  levelled  his  revolver,  not  at  the  boy, 
but  at  a  point  fifty  feet  away.  Jimmy  could  see 
the  boy's  jump  at  the  sight  of  his  enemy  there,  and 
heard  him  yell  "  Cuidado  !  "  But  before  he  could 
recover  from  his  astonishment  at  this  strange  state 
of  things,  Buxton's  six-shooter  rang  out  spitefully 
among  the  echoing  rocks,  just  as  a  huge,  tawny 
length  sailed  birdlike  out  into  the  air  towards  him. 

"A  mount'n  lion  after  Buxton,  V  thet  shot 
missed !  "  was  the  thought  that  flashed  through  the 
old  man's  brain,  even  while  his  eyes  were  following 
a  sinuous  gray  thread  that  leaped  out,  overtook 
that  yellow  bolt,  writhed  around  it,  grew  taut  for 
an  inconceivable  instant,  and  then  loosening,  dis 
appeared  in  the  chasm,  with  a  darker  form  at  its 
other  end. 

Five  minutes  later  old  Jimmy,  with  face  grayer 
than  his  hair,  stood  in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge. 
He  looked  at  the  two  mangled  forms  at  his  feet, 
and  then  at  the  cowering  bully  beside  him. 


90  THE  BOX  S  EOUND-UP. 

"  Wot  yo'  doin'  yer,  yo'  BiU  Buxton  ?  "  he  asked 
in  a  quiet,  dangerous  tone. 

"Nuthin',"  answered  the  Texan  sullenly.  "I 
wus  plum  played  out  with  the  sun,  'n'  I  laid  down 
behind  the  rock  to  rest.  'N'  then  I  seen  that  lion 
startin'  to  jump  onto  me  fr'm  a  shelf  in  the  mal 
pais?  'n'  I  fired,  but  missed  him." 

"  Don't  yo'  tell  me  none  o'  yo'r  lies,  Bill  Buxton ! 
I  know  wot  yo'  was  await'n'  fur !  Now  git  to 
camp,  'n'  walk  straight,  'n'  ef  yo'  make  one  break, 
the  Lord  hev  mercy  on  yo'r  miz'able  soul ! " 

The  old  man's  Winchester  was  levelled,  and  there 
was  a  yellow  light  in  his  little  gray  eyes.  Buxton 
sullenly  gave  up  his  six-shooter,  and  turned  towards 
the  camp. 

"Yer!"  cried  Jimmy.  "Yo'  'low  we'll  leave 
this  yer  po'r  kid  to  be  ate  by  the  kiotes 2  like  a 
dead  sheep?  Not  any,  we  don't!  Come,  git  him 
on  yo'r  shoulder  'n'  pack  him  in  to  be  buried 
decent." 

The  bully  was  about  to  demur  at  this  most  dis 
tasteful  task,  but  a  look  at  those  merciless  eyes 
and  at  the  dark-blue  barrel  were  enough,  and  he 
stooped,  grasped  the  inanimate  form,  and  swung 
it  upon  his  shoulder  like  a  sack  of  flour. 

"  Gently,  yo'  cur !  Don't  yo'*  go  to  treat  thet 
po'r  thing  like  'twas  dead  mutton ! "  And  Jimmy 
tenderly  lifted  the  limp  burden  around  into  the 

1lava:  literally,  "bad land." 

2  coyotes :  the  small  wolves  of  the  plains. 


THE  BOX  8  ROUND-UP.  91 

Texan's  arms.  "Eh?  Didn't  it  pull  a  breath 
then?  Lord  o'  love  !  They  is  a  pulse!  They  is! 
I  shore  culdn't  find  none  before,  but  now  it's  shore 
there  !  Now  git,  Bill  Buxton !  Fo'  camp  's  fast 
's  the  Lord'll  let  yo',  V  tote  thet  little  rat  like  yo' 
loved  him.  Move !  " 

When  the  "  boys "  came  loping  down  to  Big 
Pond  at  sunset,  behind  a  thousand  foaming  cattle, 
the  white-topped  wagon  was  drawn  up  beside  the 
muddy  pool  and  old  Jimmy  was  quietly  getting 
supper.  As  the  foreman  approached  Jimmy 
straightened  up  from  the  fire  and  stepped  over 
to  him. 

"  John,"  said  he,  "  ther's  a  ser'ous  matter  here. 
I  did  'low  to  settle  it  myself,  but  thet  wouldn't  be 
squar'  'th  the  outfit.  To'  all  've  got's  much  to 
say  's  I  hev.  Yo'  seen  thet  muss  'twixt  Bill  Bux 
ton  'n'  Santiaygo  las'  night,  'n'  yo'  know  wot 
Buxton  is.  I  'lowed  this  mornin'  there  was  some- 
thin'  up,  'n'  I  follered.  Ketched  Buxton  hid  up 
in  the  mal  pais  canon  waitin'  to  bushwack  the  boy. 
Jest 's  Santiaygo  come  up  he  seen  a  mount'n  lion 
scroochin'  to  pounce  onto  somebody,  'n'  then  he 
seen  't  the  somebody  was  Buxton.  He  yelled  to 
look  out,  'n'  Buxton  jumped  up  'n'  fired  at  the  lion, 
but  missed.  'N'  jest  's  the  lion  went  sailin'  fur 
Buxton  the  boy  roped  him,  clean  in  the  air  !  Fine 
work?  I  never  seen  nothin'  like  it  in  twenty-eight 
year  o'  cow  work!  But  the  kid  didn't  hev  no 
time  to  take  a  turn  round  a  rock,  n'r  nothin',  'n' 


92  THE  BOX  S  ROUND-UP. 

the  weight  o'  the  lion  pulled  him  down.  When  I 
got  down  to  'em  both  'peared  dead  's  nails  —  lion's 
head  broke  all  to  smash  'n'  the  kid  all  cut  up  'th 
the  rocks.  'Peared  like  he'd  gone  'n'  give  his  life 
to  save  thet  scrub  ez  hed  abused  him  'n'  wus  layin' 
fur  to  murder  him.  But  when  I  had  Buxton  take 
him  up  to  pack  him  to  camp,  I  'lowed  I  heerd  a 
gasp,  'n'  shore  enough  when  I  looked  ag'in  they 
was  a  pulse  no  bigger'n  a  minute.  Comin'  in  we 
struck  two  o'  Salazar's  boys  'th  the  sheep  herd,  'n' 
sooner'n  bring  the  po'r  thing  out  yer  wher'  they 
ain't  no  shade,  I  put  Jos6  to  tend  him  in  thet  hut 
in  the  pines  till  the  old  man  gits  yer  to-morrow  'th 
his  buckboard,  'n'  then  he  c'n  take  him  home  easy 
on  a  bed.  He  perked  up  some,  'n'  I  'low  he'll  git 
well.  Now  what  /  want  to  know  is  wot'll  we  do 
with  Bill  Buxton  ?  " 

"Wher  is  he?"  asked  the  foreman  with  an 
ominous  look. 

Jimmy  stepped  to  the  wagon  and  lifted  the  can 
vas  in  front.  There  lay  Buxton,  bound  hand  and 
foot,  pale  and  shivering. 

"  Yer,  boys  !  Come  'n'  pull  this  thing  out !  " 
called  John,  and  a  dozen  surprised  men  lifted  the 
burly  bundle  from  the  wagon. 

The  whole  story  was  now  told  by  Jimmy  to  the 
crowd.  Buxton  doggedly  denied,  but  guilt  was 
evident  in  his  every  look.  A  long,  low-voiced  con 
sultation  was  held  among  the  men,  and  then  John 
came  over  to  the  prisoner. 


THE  BOX  8  ROUND-UP.  93 

"Bill  Buxton,"  said  he  sternly,  "the  boys  did 
'low  to  rope  yo'  up  to  a  tree,  but  we  don't  want 
no  onpleasantness  'th  the  Triangle  A  people,  V 
we've  agreed  to  give  yo'  one  hour  to  git.  Ef  ever 
yo'  shows  up  on  the  Box  S  range  again  yo'll  never 
know  wot  hit  yo'.  There  (unlashing  the  reata 
which  bound  him)  —  git !  " 

The  cowed  desperado  rose,  straightened  his 
cramped  limbs,  turned  and  disappeared  in  the 
cedars  without  a  word.  What  became  of  him  I  do 
not  know,  but  he  never  was  again  seen  in  New 
Mexico.  As  for  Santiago,  though  he  is  lamer 
than  ever,  and  his  left  arm  has  an  ugly  knot  which 
will  never  allow  it  to  grow  strong  again,  the  Box 
S  would  as  SOOD  think  of  getting  along  without 
old  Jimmy  as  without  him. 


THE   COMANCHE'S   EEVENGE. 


IF  the  true  story  of  New  Mexico  could  be 
written  in  detail,  from  the  time  when  the  brave 
Spanish  conquistadores  planted  there  the  first  Euro 
pean  civilization  in  all  the  vast  area  now  embraced 
by  the  United  States,  it  would  stand  unparalleled 
in  all  the  history  of  the  world.  No  other  common 
wealth  on  the  globe  has  met  and  conquered  such 
incredible  hardships,  dangers,  and  sufferings  for  so 
long  a  time. 

The  story  of  New  Mexico  is  a  story  written  in 
the  blood  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Unfor 
tunately,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  compile  its  his 
tory  fully;  all  we  have  are  the  salient  points, 
and  they  have  been  saved  only  by  research  the  most 
laborious. 

There  were  no  newspapers  nor  books  to  record 
and  perpetuate  the  sufferings  and  the  heroism  of 
the  Spanish  pioneers  in  the  New  World.  The 
early  Spanish  explorers  wrote  "  cuentas"  or  ac 
counts  of  what  they  saw  and  found  in  the  strange 
new  land,  and  much  that  was  of  great  historic 
value  was  preserved  in  the  church  records  kept  by 
the  priests. 
94 


THE  COMA N CHE'S  EEVENGE.  95 

But  in  the  red  Pueblo  uprising  of  1680  most  of 
these  precious  documents  were  destroyed,  and  the 
others  were  so  scattered  over  the  world  that  they 
have  not  even  yet  been  re-collected.  So  the  writ 
ten  history  of  the  oldest — and  in  many  respects 
the  most  interesting  —  part  of  our  country  is,  and 
must  remain,  largely  fragmentary.  For  not  only 
the  traditions  of  the  stirring  events  that  took  place 
long  ago  in  these  regions,  but  also  the  old  men 
who  remember  the  traditions,  are  fast  dying  out 
together,  and  with  them  will  be  lost  the  material 
for  writing  many  a  paper  of  exciting  and  impor 
tant  history. 

Some  of  the  most  romantic  stories  of  New  Mex 
ico  in  the  last  century  cluster  about  the  little 
hamlet  of  Tome*,  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Rio 
Grande,  some  twenty-five  miles  below  Albu 
querque.  A  quiet,  sleepy  spot  it  is,  among  the  tall 
cotton-woods  that  fringe  "  the  Great  River  of  the 
North."  Never  large,  it  is  now  but  the  skeleton 
of  its  former  self,  for  the  treacherous  river  ten  years 
ago  swept  away  most  of  the  town,  leaving  only  the 
big  old  church  and  half  a  dozen  dwellings.  The 
visitor  to-day  finds  in  its  rural  doze  little  sugges 
tion  of  the  stirring  scenes  through  which  it  has 
passed. 

Tom£  —  the  name  is  a  contraction  of  Abbe*  Santo 
Tomas  —  was  founded  in  1769  by  Don  Ignacio 
Baca,  who  came  out  from  Spain  at  the  head  of 
fifty  families,  and  settled  upon  the  grant  of  land 


96  THE  COMAN  CHE'S  REVENGE. 

ceded  by  the  Spanish  crown.  The  colonists  built 
their  little  adobe  houses  upon  the  rich  bottom-lands 
of  the  Rio  Grande,  which  they  irrigated,  as  is 
necessary  in  this  arid  climate,  by  ditches  from  the 
river. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  hostile  Indian  tribes, 
and  lived  a  life  of  constant  harassment.  They 
were  well  fortified,  however,  and  numerous  enough 
to  hold  their  own ;  their  quaint  old  Spanish  esco- 
petas  (flint-lock  muskets)  putting  them  on  an 
equality  with  a  far  larger  force  of  bow-armed 
Indians. 

The  Comanches  were  just  then  inclined  to  peace, 
and  Don  Ignacio,  who  was  shrewd  as  well  as  cour 
ageous,  soon  established  friendly  relations  with 
them.  They  began  to  come  regularly  to  Tome*  to 
trade,  and  were  always  hospitably  received. 

Between  them  and  the  Navajos  an  immemorial 
and  implacable  hostility  existed,  and  the  wiser 
citizens  of  Tome*  began  to  wish  that  some  alliance 
might  be  made  with  the  Comanches  which  should 
forever  protect  Tom 6  from  the  common  foe. 

About  this  time  an  event  occurred  which  gave 
reason  to  hope  that  the  wish  might  be  realized 
suddenly.  The  Comanche  chief  was  a  tall,  su 
perbly  built  Indian,  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  of 
mental  power  commensurate  with  his  vast  physical 
strength.  He  formed  a  strong  friendship  for  Don 
Ignacio,  and  at  last  brought  his  son,  a  fine-looking 
boy  of  ten,  to  visit  his  new  Spanish  friends.  Sefior 


THE  COMANCHWS  EEVENGE.  97 

Baca  had  a  very  pretty  little  daughter,  Maria,  then 
about  seven  years  old,  and  the  two  children  took 
a  great  fancy  to  each  other. 

"Amigo"  said  the  Comanche  chief  to  Senor  Baca 
one  day,  "  see  the  children,  how  they  play  together. 
Is  it  not  well  that  when  they  grow  old  enough  we 
marry  them,  and  make  an  eternal  alliance  between 
my  people  and  the  people  of  Tome*  ?  " 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Senor  Baca.  "  We  will  do  so." 
And  he  made  a  solemn  compact. 

The  Indians  thereupon  made  a  great  feast,  and 
presently  departed  for  their  country,  away  to  the 
east  of  Tome*,  in  high  spirits.  Every  year  the 
Comanche  chief  used  to  come  with  a  number  of 
his  people  to  Tome*,  bringing  to  little  Maria  lavish 
presents  of  horses,  buffalo  robes,  buffalo  meat,  and 
the  like. 

At  last,  when  the  boy  was  nineteen  years  old, 
the  whole  tribe,  decked  out  in  their  gayest  blank 
ets  and  buckskins  and  feathers,  accompanied  him 
to  Tom6  to  celebrate  the  marriage.  He  had  by 
this  time  grown  to  be  a  tall,  athletic  young  brave, 
who  showed  much  of  his  father's  physical  and 
mental  strength. 

But  Don  Ignacio  had  changed  his  mind.  The 
colony  was  prospering  finely,  and  the  surrounding 
Indians  had  given  much  less  trouble  of  late.  He 
was  less  concerned  for  a  politic  alliance  than  in 
the  earlier,  doubtful  days,  and  thought  it  probable 
that  he  might  be  able  to  retain  the  friendship  of 


98       THE  COMANCHWS  REVENGE. 

the  Comanches  without  giving  up  his  daughter,  to 
whom  he  was  growing  more  and  more  attached. 

The  tradition  of  the  day  says  that  she  was  a 
very  beautiful  girl.  As  to  the  sacred  promise  he 
had  made,  he  thought  —  like  many  people  of  our 
more  enlightened  days — that  a  promise  made  to  an 
Indian  "  didn't  count."  So  he  arranged  the  matter 
with  the  people  of  the'  town,  and  hid  Maria  in  a 
secure  place. 

When  the  Comanches  arrived  he  put  on  a  sor 
rowful  face  and  said,  "  Alas  !  My  poor  daughter ! 
She  died  of  small-pox  this  winter,  and  I  am  left 
alone." 

The  Comanches  received  this  news  with  great 
sorrow,  and  turned  homeward,  lamenting  bitterly. 
A  year  passed  without  trouble.  Then  a  party  of 
traders  from  the  pueblo  of  Isleta,  twelve  miles  .up 
the  river  from  Tome*,  went  over  to  the  Comanche 
country  with  a  pack  train  of  burros.  During  their 
stay  there,  the  death  of  Maria  was  spoken  of  by 
the  Comanches. 

"  But  that  is  not  true,"  said  the  Isletans.  "  The 
girl  is  alive  and  well,  for  we  saw  her  but  a  few 
days  before  we  started." 

The  Comanche  chief  questioned  them  closely, 
and,  upon  rinding  that  they  told  the  truth,  was  so 
much  enraged  at  the  trick  that  had  been  put  upon 
him,  that  he  at  once  began  to  lay  his  plans  for  ven 
geance. 

The  8th  of  September  had  come,  the  feast  day 


THE  COM  AN CHE'S  EEVENGE.  99 

of  Santo  Tomas,  the  patron  saint  of  Tome",  and 
the  busy  little  Spanish  town  was  entering  upon  a 
grand  celebration.  In  the  afternoon  there  were  to 
be  horse-races  and  foot-races,  "running  the  chicken," 
and  shooting-matches ;  and  in  the  evening  a  grand 
ball. 

Now,  in  the  forenoon  of  this  day,  the  good  old 
parish  priest  was  saying  mass  in  the  big  adobe 
church,  and  every  one  was  there  in  their  holiday 
finery. 

On  a  sudden  a  terrible  yell  was  heard  outside, 
and  in  another  moment  the  Comanches,  hideous  in 
their  war-paint,  were  pouring  into  the  church.  It 
was  a  complete  surprise.  The  Tomenos,  after 
long  security,  had  laid  aside  their  early  vigilance, 
and  were  all  unarmed.  Powerless  to  resist,  they 
were  slaughtered  like  sheep,  and  not  a  man  of 
Tome*  was  spared  to  tell  the  ghastly  tale.  Even 
the  priest  perished  with  the  rest.  Most  of  the 
women  and  children  were  spared,  and  many  were 
carried  off  into  captivity  —  among  them  Maria, 
the  innocent  cause  of  all  this  bloodshed. 

The  Franciscan  priest  of  Albuquerque  came 
down  to  bury  the  dead,  and  console  the  survivors. 
He  wrote  a  very  brief  account  of  the  affair  in  his 
church  records,  naively  adding,  "  How  fortunate 
that  all  had  been  to  confession  and  communion  the 
day  before." 

Maria  was  carried  to  the  Comanche  country,  with 
great  care,  and  there  was  married  to  the  young 


100  THE  COM  AN  CHITS  EEVENGE. 

warrior  who  had  waited  for  her  so  long.  Tradi 
tion  says  that  she  soon  became  well  content  with 
her  new  home,  where  she  was  treated  with  unusual 
consideration.  At  all  events,  she  passed  the  remain 
der  of  a  long  life  there,  and  her  descendants  are  still 
to  be  found  among  the  Comanches  in  the  Indian 
nation,  still  bearing  her  old  family  name  of  Baca. 

Only  fifteen  years  ago  one  of  her  ever-so-great- 
grandsons,  a  stalwart  and  handsome  brave  named 
Puercus,  who  was  then  the  head  chief  of  the  Co 
manches,  came  down  to  Puerto  de  Luna  to  visit 
Colonel  Manuel  Chaves,  the  most  extraordinary 
Indian-fighter  and  rifle-shot  New  Mexico  has  ever 
produced.  His  prowess  in  war  and  his  spotless  in 
tegrity  in  peace  made  him  feared,  while  he  was  also 
esteemed  by  all  the  Indians  in  the  Territory,  and 
some  of  them  felt  the  warmest  friendship  for  him. 

The  Navajos  were  just  then  being  removed  from 
Fort  Sumner  to  their  present  reservation,  two  hun 
dred  miles  to  the  west,  and  when  Puercus  and  his 
two  wives  left  Puerto  de  Luna  they  were  sur 
rounded  by  the  traditional  foes  of  their  race. 
They  made  a  gallant  resistance,  the  women  fight 
ing  like  warriors,  and  held  out  for  half  a  day  be 
fore  they  were  killed  by  the  swarming  Navajos, 
over  thirty  of  whom  had  bitten  the  dust  during 
that  unequal  struggle. 

As  for  Tome*,  which  never  fully  recovered  from 
that  fearful  blow,  the  Indians  know  it  to  this  day 
as  "  The  Town  of  the  Broken  Promise." 


IN  THE   PUEBLO   ALTO. 


"Presto!  Pres-s-s-to-o I " 

A  small  and  very  ragged  boy  was  running  fran 
tically  down  one  of  the  long,  smooth  slopes  of 
Western  New  Mexico,  waving  his  tattered  jacket 
wildly  above  his  head,  and  yelling  the  words  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs.  A  hundred  yards  ahead  was 
a  dense  huddle  of  dirty  gray  fleeces,  upborne  by 
a  maze  of  slender,  scurrying  legs.  Two  big,  shaggy 
dogs  were  running  and  barking  vigorously  on  either 
flank  of  the  flock,  keeping  it  compact  and  on  the 
gallop. 

Truly,  Pedro  was  in  serious  trouble.  What 
would  the  patron  say,  when  he  learned  that  his 
flock  had  strayed  into  the  Bewitched  Canon  and 
eaten  of  the  dreaded  yerba  mala,  the  evil  weed, 
while  Pedro  slept?  And  who  knew  how  many  of 
them  would  yet  die?  Ay  de  mi!  It  was  a  sad 
day ! 

Pedro  and  his  shrivelled  old  father,  Esquipulo, 
hardly  bigger  than  the  boy,  had  been  given  charge 
of  one  of  Don  Ramon's  improved  flocks  of  twenty- 
five  hundred  sheep  only  the  month  before.  Es 
quipulo  had  now  gone  back  to  the  village  with 

101 


102  •    -JOT  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

one  of  the  two-  burros  for  supplies,  leaving  Pedro 
in  sole  charge  of  the  flock.  The  boy  was  only  fif 
teen,  a  manly,  hard-working,  self-reliant  little  fel 
low.  He  had  been  up  all  night,  collecting  the 
flock,  which  had  been  scattered  by  a  prowling 
bear,  and  his  young  eyes  were  heavy.  Surely  it 
could  do  no  harm  if  he  lay  down  under  this  pinon 
tree  and  snatched  a  wink  of  sleep.  But  the  "  wink  " 
was  longer  than  he  had  intended,  and  when  he  woke 
the  flock  was  gone. 

Hurrying  along  their  broad  trail,  he  had  found 
the  sheep  in  the  Bewitched  Canon — a  spot  shunned 
by  all  shepherds  on  account  of  the  poisonous  weeds 
which  grew  there.  Thus  ungrazed,  it  was  full  of 
rank  grasses,  tempting  enough  to  the  unsuspicious 
sheep,  which  were  eating  greedily.  As  the  fright 
ened  boy  drew  near,  he  saw  some  of  them  leaping 
high  in  the  air  and  falling  back  to  rise  no  more. 

Stripping  off  his  jacket,  and  yelling  a  command 
to  the  dogs,  Pedro  had  started  his  flock  on  a  mad 
run  down  the  canon  and  out  across  the  valley  into 
which  it  opened.  The  only  salvation,  for  any  that 
had  eaten  of  the  weed,  was  to  keep  them  running 
till  worn  out ;  and  tired  as  he  was,  fear  and  excite 
ment  now  lent  Pedro  new  strength.  For  miles  he 
kept  the  scared  flock  running,  himself  toiling  on 
behind  with  wild  gestures  and  hoarse  "prestos;" 
but  at  last  he  fell  exhausted.  The  sheep  stopped 
at  once,  and  began  grazing  on  the  young  sward,  or 
lay  down  for  their  noon  rest.  The  dogs  came 


IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  103 

soberly  back  with  lolling  tongues,  and  lay  down 
beside  Pedro. 

Only  a  few  sheep  had  fallen  by  the  way,  and 
now  the  rest  were  safe.  But  to  make  up  the  dead 
fifty  to  Don  Ramon  —  ah,  it  would  be  very  hard  I 
And  he  was  such  a  harsh  patron  !  Pedro  could 
see  him  even  now,  white  with  rage,  his  enormous 
body  shaking,  his  huge  fist  sawing  the  air,  and  his 
strong  lungs  rolling  out  anathemas  against  the 
stupid  shepherds. 

But  it  could  not  be  helped  now.  All  that  Pedro 
could  do  was  to  redouble  his  vigilance  for  the 
future.  No  more  sleep  till  his  father's  return! 
He  would  be  back  in  three  days  now;  but  that 
would  be  too  late  to  skin  the  dead  sheep,  and  there 
was  another  loss. 

The  day  wore  slowly  on.  The  sheep  did  not 
wander  now,  and  Pedro  sat  under  a  cedar  tree 
throwing  pebbles  at  the  prairie-dogs  to  keep  him 
self  awake.  A  couple  of  coyotes  came  sneaking 
over  the  hill  so  cunningly  that  they  were  fairly  in 
the  flock  before  Pedro  knew  it.  He  unslung  the 
short  Spencer  carbine  from  his  back,  took  a  care 
ful  aim,  and  tumbled  a  coyote  dead  at  three  hun 
dred  yards  —  for  Pedro  was  a  very  fair  shot,  like 
most  lads  of  his  age  in  that  wild  country.  The 
other  coyote  ran,  with  Borracho  and  Mundo  in  hot 
pursuit;  but  as  he  dashed  through  the  flock  he 
snapped  in  mere  wantonness  at  woolly  throats 
here  and  there,  and  left  four  fat  wethers  dead. 


104  IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

The  two  big  dogs  presently  returned,  looking 
vexed.  They  could  have  torn  the  animal  to  pieces 
in  a  moment,  but  were  no  match  for  him  in  run 
ning,  and  even  now  Pedro  could  see  him  looking 
back  from  the  top  of  a  mesa  miles  away. 

"Ay!  First  it  is  the  bad  weed  and  then  the 
coyotes !  I  will  drive  them  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Puerto  del  Aire  and  sleep  them  to-night  at  the  Oji- 
tos,  for  they  are  in  want  of  water." 

The  patient  burro  —  loaded  with  the  blankets, 
an  axe,  a  coffee-pot,  a  frying-pan,  and  a  little  coffee, 
sugar,  salt,  and  flour — had  by  this  time  overtaken 
his  runaway  master.  Pedro  dressed  two  of  the 
sheep  which  the  coyote  had  killed,  and  loaded 
them  across  the  comical  little  pack-saddle.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  and  the  flock  were  pushing  slowly 
to  the  westward. 

Just  after  sunset  they  halted  in  the  pinons  under 
the  cliffs  at  the  mouth  of  the  Puerto  del  Aire  — 
the  Pass  of  the  Wind.  It  is  a  deep,  narrow  canon, 
whose  walls,  fifteen  hundred  feet  high,  are  seamed 
with  countless  veins  of  coal.  Getting  out  his  flint 
and  steel,  Pedro  soon  had  a  rousing  fire,  and  began 
to  cook  his  simple  supper.  A  pot  of  very  black 
coffee,  a  little  flour  mixed  with  water  and  cooked 
in  the  frying-pan,  and  the  roasted  ribs  of  a  whole 
side  of  a  sheep,  comprised  the  meal,  of  which  Pedro 
left  only  the  bones. 

The  sheep  had  huddled  in  a  close  circle  around 
the  fire,  shut  themselves  up  like  so  many  big  four- 


IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  105 

bladed  jackknives,  and  gone  to  sleep.  Pedro  pulled 
from  his  feet  the  clumsy  teguas  with  raw-hide 
soles  and  uppers  of  untanned  sheepskin  with  the 
wool  inward,  and  taking  his  awl  and  some  thread  of 
twisted  sinews,  mended  a  few  incipient  rents. 
Then,  laying  the  teguas  on  the  ground,  he  spread 
a  blanket  and  stretched  himself  upon  it,  with  his 
bare  feet  to  the  fire.  It  was  the  nearest  to  bed  or 
undressing  that  he  would  get  for  weeks  —  at  all 
events,  until  they  should  drive  the  flock  down  to 
Alamitos,  there  to  be  sheared  with  Don  Ramon's 
thirty  thousand  other  sheep. 

Pedro  dared  not  go  to  sleep  when  fortune 
seemed  so  unkind,  and  the  wakeful  night  wore  on 
wearily  with  him.  There  was  no  moon,  but  a  thou 
sand  stars  twinkled  up  at  him  from  the  little  pool 
in  the  arroyo.  Suddenly  the  boy  raised  himself  on 
his  elbows,  brushed  the  long  hair  back  from  his 
ears,  and  bent  his  head  sideways  to  listen  intently. 

Sharp  ears  had  Pedro!  Even  the  dogs  were 
sleeping  quietly  beside  the  fire  —  Borracho  and 
Mundo,  the  two  biggest  and  best  sheep-dogs  in  all 
Valencia  County.  But  if  they  heard  nothing, 
Pedro  felt  sure  he  did,  and  now  he  fairly  held  his 
breath  to  listen. 

There  it  came  again  —  a  faint,  thin  call,  from 
miles  away.  Pedro  jumped  to  his  feet,  seized  his 
heavy  blanket,  and  in  a  moment  had  the  fire  out. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  think  a  bit,  beside  the  dogs, 
which  were  now  awake  and  growling  low. 


106  IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

"  Los  Navajoses  !  What  can  they  be  doing,  trav 
elling  in  the  middle  of  the  night  ?  Tata l  told  me 
to  be  very  careful  of  them,  for  they  are  warlike  of 
late,  stealing  many  sheep  and  horses,  and  killing 
many  people.  Quiza  they  are  after  the  sheep !  It 
is  well  that  I  go  away  from  here  quickly;  but 
where?  They  are  coming  from  the  way  of  San 
Mateo,  so  I  cannot  go  homeward  on  this  side  of 
the  mountains.  Goats  can  go  through  the  Puerto 
by  day,  but  sheep  never.  But  Tata  showed  me, 
one  time,  from  the  top  of  the  mesa  here,  the  ruins 
of  a  strange  city  ten  miles  west.  There  I  can 
hide  my  sheep  and  myself  till  he  comes,  for  the 
walls  of  the  Pueblo  Alto  are  very  strong.  That  is 
the  place !  Borracho !  Mundo !  HecTialos  !  " 

The  intelligent  dogs  began  running  around  the 
flock  and  wakening  it.  The  big  woolly  jackknives 
slowly  opened  themselves,  and  the  burro,  rein 
vested  with  his  pack,  fell  into  place  in  the  rear  of 
the  procession. 

Down  the  long  "wash,"  around  tall,  yellow  cliffs 
and  turrets  of  water-carved  sandstone,  over  turtle- 
back  ledges,  and  at  last  out  into  the  broad,  broken 
valley,  the  slow  marchers  wound.  It  was  hard 
travelling  in  the  dark,  and  Pedro  had  never  been 
thus  far  west  before ;  but  his  sense  of  locality  was 
well  developed,  and,  steering  by  the  familiar  stars, 
he  pushed  bravely  along.  Great  owls  skimmed 

1  Father. 


IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  107 

just  above  his  head,  hooting  dismally;  and  now 
and  then,  along  the  side  of  the  vast  mesa  he  was 
skirting,  shrilled  the  appalling  cry  of  the  moun 
tain  lion.  He  carried  the  carbine  in  his  hand, 
now  peering  through  the  darkness  at  the  dim, 
white  mass  ahead,  and  anon  stopping  to  listen  for 
sounds  from  the  rear. 

A  black  peak  on  the  right  grew  upon  the  dark 
ness,  overshadowed  them  awhile,  and  then  fell 
behind.  "  We  are  going  well.  There  is  the  Peak 
of  the  Heart,"  said  Pedro  encouragingly  to  him 
self.  "  We  must  soon  come  now  to  the  Valley  of 
the  Deserted  City."  And  he  pushed  the  sheep  to 
a  broken  trot. 

Just  as  the  dawn  blossomed  to  red  in  the  east, 
they  descended  a  short,  steep  "draw,"  crossed  a 
deep  but  waterless  river-bed,  and  emerged  upon  a 
smooth,  circular  plain.  In  the  very  centre  of  it 
Pedro  could  see  the  high,  ragged  walls  of  the  mys 
terious  Pueblo  Alto,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more 
the  dogs  were  holding  the  sheep  in  a  tired  clump 
at  the  foot  of  the  ruins,  while  Pedro  climbed  up  to 
explore. 

It  was  a  wonderful  place,  the  ruins  of  an  ancient 
Pueblo  stone  city,  deserted  before  Columbus  dis 
covered  America.  It  lay  in  the  great  Navajo 
reservation,  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  settle 
ment.  Few  white  men  have  ever  seen  it,  even  to 
this  day.  The  town  was  built  in  the  shape  of  a 
rectangle,  two  hundred  feet  long,  with  the  houses 


108  IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

terraced  and  facing  inward  upon  a  common  plaza 
or  square.  The  outer  walls  were  still  standing, 
ten  to  twenty  feet  high,  and  on  the  west  side  part 
of  the  fifth  story  of  a  great  tower,  square  outside 
and  round  within,  rose  nearly  fifty  feet  aloft. 
Doors  and  windows  there  were  none,  and  the 
ladders  by  which  the  walls  were  once  scaled  had 
crumbled  to  dust  centuries  before.  Luckily  there 
was  a  breach  in  the  wall  of  one  of  the  rooms,  and 
driving  his  flock  in  through  this,  Pedro  walled  up 
the  gap  with  the  big  flat  rocks  which  had  fallen 
from  the  upper  stories.  A  little  bunch-grass  grew 
in  the  plaza  and  on  the  mounds  of  debris.  Water 
there  was  none,  nearer  than  the  pools  in  the  Canon 
de  los  Osos,  six  miles  away,  but  the  sheep  had 
been  watered  only  a  few  hours  before,  and  were 
used  to  water  only  once  in  two  days.  On  a  pinch, 
they  could  go  without  for  four. 

As  for  himself,  there  was  water  in  the  little  keg 
on  the  pack-saddle,  and  food  enough  for  a  week 
with  economy.  Pedro  cooked  breakfast  over  a  fire 
of  chapparo,  and  having  eaten,  sat  down  to  wait. 

There  were  no  signs  of  danger  as  yet.  Had  he 
been  too  timid  and  made  a  mistake  ?  If  his  fears 
were  groundless,  it  was  a  bad  mistake  to  come  to 
the  Pueblo  Alto,  for  it  was  in  the  rightful  country 
of  the  surly  Navajos,  who  would  certainly  make 
trouble  if  they  found  him  there. 

But  while  these  uncomfortable  thoughts  were 
passing  through  his  unkempt  head,  his  sharp  eyes 


IN   THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  109 

sighted  a  figure,  outlined  against  the  sky,  on  the 
top  of  a  swell  six  miles  away.  Civilized  eyes, 
which  are  little  called  upon  for  such  use,  could 
hardly  have  discerned  it  at  all,  but  Pedro  saw 
plainly  that  it  was  an  Indian  on  horseback,  and 
coming  toward  him. 

The  figure  disappeared,  and  another  came  in 
sight,  and  then  another  and  another,  till  the 
frightened  boy  had  counted  twenty-seven  of  them. 
He  wiped  his  gun  carefully  with  a  piece  of  buck 
skin,  and  counted  the  long,  heavy  cartridges  in 
his  belt  —  just  twenty-two.  Truly,  here  was  no 
chance  for  poor  shooting !  If  the  Indians  attacked 
him,  he  must  make  every  bullet  count.  Esquipulo 
had  been  a  famous  Indian-fighter  in  his  day ;  and 
the  boy  had  often  listened  to  his  stories  of  struggles 
with  Apache,  Navajo,  and  Ute. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  the  old  man  used  to  say, 
"which  thou  must  always  remember.  An  Indian 
is  the  most  seeing  man  in  the  world.  He  will 
know,  as  well  and  as  quickly  as  thyself,  if  thou 
art  frightened.  When  he  attacks  thee  in  a  strong 
place,  he  will  first  make  feints  of  charging,  to  see 
what  thou  art  made  of.  If  thou  art  cool,  and 
waitest  to  make  every  shot  count,  he  will  at  once 
change  his  ways,  and  try  to  pick  thee  off  from  a 
distance  —  in  which  there  is  small  danger,  if  thou 
art  watchful.  But  if  thou  miss  a  shot  or  two 
at  first,  he  will  charge  into  thee  and  over  thee, 
and  shoot  thee  down  from  near." 


110  IN   THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

Pedro  did  remember  all  this,  which  he  had 
heard  a  hundred  times  ;  and  though  he  was  trem 
bling  with  excitement  and  fear,  he  fully  resolved 
that  he  would  show  a  cool  front.  But  even  if  he 
repulsed  their  immediate  attacks  —  what  then  ? 
They  could  hold  him  besieged  indefinitely,  and 
there  was  no  chance  of  help  except  from  his  father. 
Ah !  His  father !  Alone  and  on  foot,  why,  the 
Navajos  would  have  no  trouble  with  him. 

The  more  Pedro  thought  of  this  the  more  alarmed 
he  became.  Esquipulo  would  be  back  now  in  a 
day  or  two.  He  would  follow  the  sheep-tracks, 
and  come  unsuspectingly  to  his  death.  But  how  to 
warn  him  ! 

It  was  too  late  for  Pedro  to  abandon  the  sheep 
and  sneak  back  unseen  to  warn  his  father  —  as  he 
now  would  have  been  glad  to  do.  The  Indians 
were  already  riding  down  the  open  valley  in  plain 
sight,  and  not  more  than  two  miles  away. 

Ah !     The  dogs !     "  Here,  Borracho  !  " 

Borracho  came  leisurely  up  and  laid  his  huge 
head  in  Pedro's  lap.  Borracho  was  very  knowing. 
He  understood  all  that  was  said  to  him,  he  could 
go  home  and  carry  a  message. 

Pedro  could  neither  read  nor  write,  but  he  had 
not  been  in  the  school  of  Out-of -Doors  for  nothing. 

He  tore  a  rag  from  his  shirt,  knotted  into  it  an 
ear  lopped  from  one  of  the  sheep,  and  bearing  Don 
Ramon's  ear-mark;  a  bit  of  the  broken  Pueblo 
pottery  which  was  strewn  all  over  the  ruins ;  and 


IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  Ill 

a  rude  picture  drawn  with  a  coal  upon  a  tolerably 
white  bit  of  shirt,  representing  sheep  inside  a  high 
wall,  and  twenty-seven  Indians  outside. 

Tying  the  parcel  about  Borracho's  neck,  he  let 
the  dog  down  over  the  wall  with  repeated  com 
mands  and  pointings,  and  a  final  "  POT  San  Mateo  ! 
Vayate!" 

Borracho  seemed  to  understand  his  mission  and 
started  off  on  a  long  lope.  The  Indians  fired  at 
him  as  he  passed,  but  he  skulked  up  the  arroyo 
safely,  and  the  last  Pedro  saw  of  him  he  was  five' 
miles  away  and  still  running. 

The  Indians  reined  up  at  the  ruins  and  dis 
mounted  carelessly.  They  had  seen  the  tracks  of 
but  one  small  boy  with  the  sheep,  and  anticipated 
no  resistance  to  their  intended  seizure  of  the  flock. 

"  Stop !  "  called  Pedro,  who  had  learned  some 
thing  of  the  Navajo  tongue  from  the  Indians  who 
were  constantly  coming  to  San  Mateo.  "  Stop,  or 
I  will  shoot!  These  sheep  are  of  Don  Ramon, 
and  I  must  keep  them." 

The  Indians,  yelling  scornfully,  prepared  to 
mount  the  wall.  One,  kneeling  upon  his  saddle, 
took  another  upon  his  back,  and  thus  lifted  him 
high  enough  to  reach  the  top  of  the  wall  where  it 
was  lowest.  The  Indian  pulled  himself  up  lightly, 
but  just  as  he  got  his  knees  upon  the  top  he  fell 
back  upon  his  companion  with  a  groan.  The 
shepherd  boy  had  aimed  well. 

The  Navajos  at  once  began  firing ;  but  Pedro  kept 


112  IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

well  hidden  in  the  big  tower,  peeping  only  through 
the  loopholes  —  through  which  the  besieged  Pue 
blos  had  shot  their  quartz-tipped  arrow  ages  before 
—  and  waiting  patiently  his  chance  to  shoot,  for 
now  the  Indians  seemed  to  appreciate  the  shelter 
afforded  by  the  wall,  and  showed  themselves  but 
little. 

Suddenly  four  swarthy  heads  popped  above  the 
wall;  four  Indians  leaped  into  the  enclosure  and 
made  a  rush  for  the  tower,  while  several  more  were 
climbing  the  wall.  It  was  a  trying  moment,  but 
Pedro  kept  his  head.  Not  till  they  were  within 
twenty  feet  did  his  loophole  spit  its  blast  of  smoke- 
Two  of  the  Navajos  were  in  line,  and  the  heavy 
ball,  passing  clear  through  the  foremost,  gave  the 
second  a  mortal  wound.  The  other  two  hesitated  a 
second,  and  it  gave  Pedro  time  to  throw  in  another 
cartridge  and  drop  the  third  Indian  at  the  very  en 
trance  to  the  tower.  The  fourth  ran  and  jumped 
down  outside,  and  his  companions  hastily  dropped 
back. 

Pedro  felt  that  he  had  make  a  good  beginning, 
and  it  gave  him  confidence.  With  sufficient 
watchfulness  he  believed  he  could  keep  the  In 
dians  at  bay  till  the  arrival  of  the  help  which  he 
now  felt  sure  would  come.  He  crawled  with  pain 
ful  care  to  the  pack,  mixed  a  little  flour  and  water, 
and  ate  it  raw — for  there  was  no  wood  to  make  a 
fire.  The  Indians  had  evidently  learned  to  respect 
his  metal,  and  made  no  more  assaults,  though  the 


IN   THE  PUEBLO  ALTO.  113 

sharp  pi-anng  !  of  a  bullet  close  to  his  head,  when 
he  exposed  it  at  all,  reminded  him  that  they  were 
watching  him  closely. 

So  the  day  wore  on;  and  at  last  the  dreaded 
darkness  began  to  close  in  upon  him.  Pedro 
knew  that  now  was  the  time  of  his  utmost  danger ; 
and,  without  thought  of  sleeping,  watched  like 
a  cat,  creeping  softly  around  to  peer  and  listen. 
In  this  way  he  was  on  hand  to  stop  one  attempt  to 
scale  the  wall,  and  pushed  down  big  rocks  upon  the 
Indians  below. 

About  midnight  he  heard  a  strange,  grating 
noise,  which  puzzled  him.  Creeping  around,  he 
found  that  the  Indians  were  quietly  removing  the 
stones  with  which  he  had  filled  the  gap  where  the 
sheep  came  in.  The  tower  had  a  loophole  on  that 
side,  and  aiming  along  the  house-walls  and  about 
a  foot  out,  he  fired  at  a  guess.  A  yell  of  pain 
told  that  he  had  guessed  well,  and  directly  he 
heard  the  Indians  moving  off  into  the  plain.  There 
was  no  further  molestation  that  night,  and  when 
morning  came  Pedro  felt  reasonably  secure.  The 
Indians  had  camped  just  over  a  low  ridge,  whence 
they  could  see  without  being  seen,  and  there  they 
stayed  all  day,  doubtless  planning  new  strategy 
for  the  night. 

But  just  as  the  sun  was  setting  toward  the 
Chaco  Mesa,  Pedro  saw  a  body  of  horsemen  rid 
ing  hard  from  the  east.  As  they  drew  near  he 
recognized  in  the  lead  Colonel  Manuel  Chaves, 


114  IN  THE  PUEBLO  ALTO. 

the  terror  of  every  hostile  tribe  in  the  Territory  for 
a  generation,  and  with  him  were  Esquipulo  and  a 
score  of  well-armed  neighbors.  Away  at  the  rear 
toiled  poor  old  Borracho,  worn  out  with  his  jour 
ney  of  more  than  one  hundred  miles,  but  still  un 
willing  to  desert  his  master. 

The  Indians  were  already  in  flight,  and  as  they 
were  on  the  reservation,  no  pursuit  was  made. 
All  patted  Pedro's  shaggy  head,  and  when  the 
famous  Colonel  Chaves  said  to  him,  uPedrito,  thou 
art  a  brave  boy.  I  wish  I  had  an  army  like  thee ! " 
his  cup  of  happiness  was  full. 

The  flock  was  escorted  safely  to  San  Mateo,  and 
Don  Ramon  was  so  well  pleased  with  Pedro's  pluck 
that  he  gave  him  fifty  sheep  for  his  very  own. 
Pedro  is  a  grown  man  now,  and  the  fifty  sheep 
have  increased  to  many  thousand.  Borracho  is 
still  alive,  and  is  made  much  of,  though  he  ceased 
to  be  useful  years  ago.  He  has  lost  all  his  teeth, 
and  can  barely  limp  for  rheumatism;  but  when 
unmannerly  dogs  would  impose  on  his  age,  there 
is  not  a  man  or  child  in  San  Mateo  but  will  stone 
them  off  with,  "  Ill-said  curs !  Would  you  tear 
the  brave  dog  that  brought  the  message  from  the 
Pueblo  Alto,  and  saved  Pedro  and  the  flock  ?  " 


LITTLE   LOLITA. 


I  WAS  very  much  out  of  breath  when  I  first 
saw  Lolita,  and  just  had  enough  left  to  say  "  Quat- 
zee"  and  take  the  little,  brown,  fat,  dimpled  hand 
she  shyly  held  out  to  me — most  of  the  other  being 
in  her  cunning  little  mouth.  You  would  have 
been  out  of  breath,  too,  if  you  had  been  with  me. 
Just  think  of  living  in  a  town  that  you  have  to 
climb  a  stone  ladder  of  a  thousand  steps  to  get  to  ! 
That  is  the  sort  of  place  Lolita  lives  in.  It  is 
called  Acoma,  and  I  think  it  is  the  most  wonderful 
city  in  the  world.  The  strongholds  of  Quebec  and 
Gibraltar  are  nothing  beside  it.  It  is  in  one  of 
the  western  counties  of  New  Mexico,  that  most 
interesting  part. of  America,  and  one  about  which 
very  few  people  in  the  East  know  much.  Its 
people  all  have  brown  skins,  long  black  hair,  and 
the  strangest  clothes  you  ever  saw.  They  are 
Pueblos,  the  children  of  that  strange,  quiet  race 
which  had  lived  in  this  country  for  hundreds  of 
years  before  Columbus  ever  dreamed  there  was 
such  a  place  as  America  They  live  to-day  just  as 
they  lived  then,  in  queer,  neat  houses  made  of  big 
mud  bricks  dried  in  the  sun,  with  nice  little  farms 

115 


116  LITTLE  LOLITA. 

and  big  flocks  of  sheep  and  cattle  and  horses. 
They  call  themselves  Hano  Ohshatch,  which  means 
"  children  of  the  sun,"  for  they  believe  the  sun  is  the 
house  of  a  god,  whom  they  worship  in  some  very 
queer  ways.  They  go  to  church,  too,  in  the  most 
wonderful  church  in  the  world.  It  took  them 
forty  years  to  build  it,  and  forty  more  to  make  the 
graveyard.  You  see,  the  town  stands  on  top  of 
what  they  call  here  a  mesa,  or  table  of  rock,  five 
hundred  feet  high,  and  with  sides  as  steep  as  the 
walls  of  a  house.  There  are  only  three  paths  to 
the  top,  and  such  dreadful  paths  as  they  are  you 
can't  imagine.  Once,  long  ago,  a  man  and  a  woman 
who  lived  in  the  town  were  coming  up  the  worst 
of  these  paths,  and  were  nearly  to  the  top,  when 
the  man  slipped  and  fell  backward.  As  he  fell  he 
hit  the  woman,  and  both  tumbled  together  over 
five  hundred  feet  to  the  plain  below,  crushed  into 
horrible  and  shapeless  masses.  So  you  can  see 
how  fearfully  steep  these  stone  ladders  must  be. 
And  when  I  tell  you  that  the  church  covers  far 
more  ground  than  any  church  in  New  York,  and 
the  graveyard  nearly  as  much  more,  and  that  these 
patient  people  had  to  bring  every  timber  and  every 
bit  of  mud  for  the  church,  and  all  the  dirt  for  the 
graveyard,  which  is  a  great  stone  box  over  two 
hundred  feet  square  and  sixty-five  feet  deep,  you 
will  understand  why  it  is  so  wonderful.  In  the 
same  way  they  had  to  bring  up  all  the  material  for 
the  houses  in  which  eight  hundred  people  live  — 


PUEBLO  WOMEN. 


LITTLE  LOLITA.  117 

up  dizzy  precipices  which  few  Americans  dare  to 
climb  with  empty  hands.  As  the  great  table  of 
seventy  acres  upon  which  the  town  is  built  is  one 
solid  rock,  of  course  they  can  have  no  wells ;  but 
there  are  three  great  natural  cavities  in  the  rock, 
each  large  enough  to  throw  a  big  house  into,  and 
whenever  it  rains  or  snows  a  great  deal  of  water  is 
caught  in  these.  Back  in  the  States,  this  water 
would  soon  spoil ;  but  it  keeps  fresh  and  cool  all 
the  year  round  in  Acoma,  which  is  a  thousand  feet 
higher  above  the  sea-level  than  the  top  of  the  tall 
est  mountain  east  of  Colorado.  The  beautiful 
plain  all  around  the  foot  of  the  mesa  is  green  with 
rustling  corn  and  waving  grass,  and  thousands  of 
sheep  and  cattle,  horses  and  burros,  are  grazing  all 
around.  Did  you  ever  see  a  burro  ?  He  is  a  sort 
of  pocket-size  donkey,  no  larger  than  a  young  colt, 
but  very  strong  and  useful,  and  with  the  queerest, 
wisest  expression  of  face  you  ever  saw.  To  look 
at  him,  you  would  fancy  he  had  swallowed  three 
dictionaries,  and  knew  them  all  by  heart  already. 
But  really  all  he  knows  is  to  look  out  for  himself 
pretty  well,  and  to  be  very  careful  when  he  is  in 
trusted  with  a  burden. 

Well,  when  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  panting 
and  hot,  there  was  little  Lolita  standing  on  the 
edge,  where  she  could  look  down  five  hundred 
feet.  I  had  seen  her  from  the  bottom,  whence  she 
looked  no  bigger  than  a  black  ant  standing  on  its 
hind  legs.  But  now  I  could  see  that  she  was 


118  LITTLE  LOLITA. 

about  three  years  old,  very  plump,  and  with  more 
dimples  than  anybody  else  I  know.  Perhaps  the 
dimple-maker  was  a  particular  friend  of  hers.  Her 
hair  was  very  long  for  such  a  little  girl,  and  hadn't 
a  kink  in  it.  It  was  perfectly  straight,  very  fine, 
black  as  a  crow,  and  "  banged  "  in  front.  I  can 
remember  very  well  when  an  American  girl  with 
bangs  would  have  been  a  curiosity  to  the  whole 
country,  common  as  the  fashion  is  now;  but  the 
Acoma  women  and  children  have  been  banging 
their  hair  for  hundreds  of  years.  The  Yankees 
didn't  invent  everything. 

Lolita  had  on  a  little  loose  calico  gown  which 
came  to  her  knees,  and  not  another  thing.  She 
never  wore  shoes  or  stockings  in  her  life ;  but 
when  she  gets  older,  she  will  put  on  funny  little 
moccasins  made  of  deerskin,  with  rawhide  soles,  and 
a  long  band  of  deerskin  wrapped  around  her  leg 
from  foot  to  knee,  until  it  looks  like  a  very  big 
white  boot.  Neither  has  she  ever  worn  a  hat ;  but 
in  place  of  it,  on  feast-days  and  to  go  to  church, 
she  has  a  little  red  shawl  that  she  puts  over  her 
head  and  shoulders,  so  that  it  looks  much  like  a 
tight  hood.  No  matter  how  cold  it  is,  she  wears 
no  other  clothes  —  and  really  she  doesn't  mind  the 
winter  half  as  much  as  many  little  Eastern  girls, 
with  all  their  warm  clothes,  and  cloaks,  and  muffs. 
Her  little  body  is  as  tough  all  over  as  your  face  is, 
and  for  the  same  reason  —  habit. 

At  first  Lolita  was  very  shy  of  me.     She  had 


LITTLE  LOLITA.  119 

never  seen  but  one  or  two  people  in  such  clothes, 
which  looked  as  queer  to  her  as  her  father's  would 
to  you;  and  what  she  had  seen  were  on  rough 
people,  who  didn't  care  for  little  girls.  But  I  had 
brought  a  very  big  sack  of  candy  behind  my  saddle, 
and  it  didn't  take  her  long  to  find  out  what  those 
little  sweet,  striped  sticks  were  for.  She  couldn't 
speak  a  word  of  English  or  Spanish,  and  as  I  didn't 
know  a  great  deal  of  the  Acoma  language  then  we 
couldn't  talk  together  much.  But  we  soon  under 
stood  each  other  famously,  all  the  same,  and  really 
didn't  need  to  use  our  tongues. 

So  in  a  very  short  time  you  might  have  seen  us 
walking  together  over  the  rough  rocks  toward  the 
town,  she  holding  my  hand,  and  looking  up  at  me 
sidewise  out  of  her  big,  dark  eyes,  while  the  stick 
of  candy  grew  steadily  shorter  and  shorter  between 
the  little,  white  teeth.  "Harte  cu-cha  hobo  f  "  I  asked, 
which  means  in  Acoma,  "Where  do  you  live?" 
and  Lolita  led  me  around  past  the  big  church,  and 
stopped  in  front  of  a  row  of  houses  more  than  one 
thousand  feet  long,  all  divided  up  into  narrow 
little  dwellings,  but  solid  and  continuous,  as  if 
carved  out  of  one  great  block.  And  such  queer 
houses !  There  are  none  in  the  States  like  them  — 
which  is  a  pity,  as  they  are  much  more  comfortable 
than  the  tenements  of  our  great  cities.  Each  house 
is  three  stories  high,  and  built  in  terraces,  so  that 
the  row  looks  like  three  great  steps  to  some  giant's 
door.  There  are  no  windows  and  no  doors  in  the 


120  LITTLE  LOLITA. 

first  story  —  nothing  but  little  peepholes  with 
panes  of  gypsum,  a  stone  which  lets  the  light 
through  like  glass,  but  is  not  nearly  so  clear.  To 
get  into  the  house  at  all  you  must  climb  a  funny, 
big  ladder,  and  then  walk  back  on  the  roof  of  the 
first  story  to  the  door  of  the  second.  Inside  is  a 
little  trap-door  and  another  ladder,  by  which  you 
can  go  down  into  the  cellar-like  first  story.  The 
people  built  their  houses  in  this  way  to  defend 
themselves  better  against  the  Apaches,  Navajos, 
and  other  murderous  Indians  who  used  to  be  fight 
ing  them  all  the  time ;  and  for  the  same  reason  they 
put  their  town  on  top  of  the  lofty  mesa.  The 
houses  are  very  neat  inside,  and  have  the  funniest 
little  mud  fireplaces  imaginable,  but  no  chairs  or 
bedsteads,  tables  or  lounges.  The  beds  are  spread 
on  the  floor  at  night,  and  rolled  up  and  put  along 
the  walls  by  day  for  seats ;  and  for  their  meals  they 
sit  on  the  floor  in  a  circle,  with  the  food  in  the 
middle. 

After  I  had  talked  awhile  with  Lolita's  father 
and  mother,  and  eaten  some  matzin,  —  their  queer, 
blue  bread,  which  looked  exactly  like  a  piece  of 
hornet's  nest,  —  I  took  Lolita  by  one  hand,  and  the 
sack  of  candy  in  the  other,  and  went  out.  We 
backed  down  the  big  ladder  and  stood  in  the  street, 
which  is  one  smooth,  solid  rock.  In  front  of  the 
houses  were  groups  of  children,  playing  in  little 
patches  of  sand,  or  tossing  pebbles  at  a  mark.  The 
children  of  Acoma  are  as  queer  as  their  town. 


LITTLE  LOLITA.  121 

They  never  saw  a  doll  nor  any  other  American 
plaything  ;  but  they  amuse  themselves  with  sticks, 
and  stones,  and  mud  pies,  and  have  a  great  deal 
better  time  than  many  white  children.  They  never 
went  to  school,  and  wouldn't  know  what  a  book 
was;  but  they  know  all  about  outdoors,  ride  on 
wild  horses,  and  can  take  care  of  themselves  as 
well  as  a  lot  of  grown-up  Americans.  The  little 
girls  take  care  not  only  of  themselves,  but  also  of 
the  babies  of  the  family,  whom  they  never  pinch, 
nor  tease,  nor  neglect.  It  is  a  very  funny  sight  to 
see  a  wee  girl  of  five  years  stoop  down  and  take 
her  fat,  naked  baby  brother  up  pick-a-back,  fold 
her  little  shawl  around  her  so  that  it  holds  him  up 
as  if  he  were  in  a  bag,  and  then  trot  off  to  her  play, 
holding  the  ends  of  her  shawl  tightly,  while  his 
chubby  face  peeps  over  her  shoulder.  These  chil 
dren  hardly  ever  cry ;  and  in  the  years  that  I  have 
been  among  them,  I  have  never  seen  them  quarrel 
— which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  my  American 
boy  and  girl  friends. 

But  when  we  came  down  the  ladder  the  children 
stopped  playing,  and  a  few  timid  ones  scurried  into 
their  homes.  The  rest  came  edging  slyly  towards 
us,  as  if  half  afraid  I  might  bite ;  but  when  they 
saw  what  Lolita  had  in  her  mouth  —  for  she  was 
at  work  on  a  second  stick  by  this  time  —  they 
grew  bolder.  I  opened  the  big  bag  and  held  up  a 
fistful  of  candy,  and  they  all  crowded  around  me, 
holding  up  their  hands  modestly,  but  saying  noth- 


122  LITTLE  LOLITA. 

ing  except  with  their  expectant  eyes.  I  noticed 
that  when  I  gave  a  stick  of  candy  to  a  little  girl, 
she  always  gave  it  to  the  baby  on  her  back,  and 
held  out  her  hand  again  for  a  piece  for  herself  — 
which  you  may  be  sure  she  got.  In  a  few  minutes 
all  the  children  in  town — about  two  hundred  of 
them  —  were  around  me  reaching  for  dulces.  A 
•good  picture  of  that  scene  would  have  been  very 
pretty,  but  all  the  people  of  Acoma,  little  and  big, 
greatly  dislike  to  have  their  photographs  taken, 
and  it  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  time  and  trouble  — 
even  a  long  time  afterward,  when  everybody  there 
knew  and  liked  me  —  to  get  pictures  of  Lolita  and 
a  few  other  children.  Only  a  few  weeks  ago  an 
American,  who  went  to  make  some  pictures  of 
that  wonderful  place,  was  driven  out  of  the  town. 
We  had  great  times  together  for  a  few  days, 
Lolita  and  I.  The  other  children  came  around, 
too,  to  play  with  me,  to  roar  when  I  made  faces  at 
them,  and  to  "  oo-ooh ! "  with  delight  over  the  paper 
dolls  I  cut  out ;  but  Lolita  was  my  favorite.  And 
now,  whenever  I  go  to  Acoma,  she  comes  dancing 
out  to  meet  me,  puts  her  fat  little  arms  around  my 
neck,  and  then  dives  in  my  pockets  for  the  candy 
she  knows  is  there.  And  whenever  I  come  away 
she  goes  down  the  big  stone  ladder  with  me — • 
generally  on  my  back  —  to  watch  me  ride  away ; 
and  the  last  thing  I  see  as  I  turn  in  my  saddle, 
before  rounding  the  corner  of  the  mesa,  is  little 
Lolita,  standing  on  a  big  sand-hill  and  waving  me 
a  pretty  good  by. 


THEEE  LIVE   WITCHES. 


IF  the  Puritans  had  had  as  much  to  say  about 
the  rest  of  the  vast  area  now  covered  by  the  United 
States  as  they  did  in  their  narrow  New  England 
strip,  I  should  not  be  writing  this.  Such  witches 
as  they  had,  they  promptly  assisted  to  a  more  mer 
ciful  world;  but  the  real  home  of  witchcraft  on 
this  continent  was  as  far  outside  their  jurisdiction 
as  their  knowledge.  No  such  merciless  censors  as 
they  were  to  be  found  in  the  arid  area  which  Spain 
had  colonized  in  the  great  Southwest  long  before 
a  Caucasian  foot  had  touched  Plymouth  Rock; 
and  in  the  bare,  adobe  villages  which  began  to  dot 
the  green  valleys  of  what  is  now  New  Mexico, 
witchcraft  was  an  institution  which  none  cared  to 
molest.  Physically,  there  were  no  braver  people 
than  these  Spanish  speaking  pioneers  who  made 
the  first  settlements  in  the  New  World.  Their 
whole  life  was  one  heroic  struggle  with  wild  beasts 
and  wilder  men,  with  suffering,  privation,  and 
danger.  The  colonists  of  the  Atlantic  coast,  peri 
lous  as  was  their  undertaking,  had  never  such 
gruesome  foes  as  the  Spaniards  fought  here  for 
three  centuries.  None  but  brave  men  would  have 

123 


124  THREE  LIVE   WITCHES. 

opened  such  a  wilderness,  and  none  but  brave  ones 
could  have  held  it.  History  records  no  greater 
heroisms  than  the  unwritten  ones  which  the  rocky 
mesas  of  New  Mexico  witnessed  almost  daily. 

But  with  all  their  courage  in  facing  material 
danger,  these  simple,  uneducated  folk  shrank  from 
the  mysterious  and  the  unknown  like  children 
from  the  dark.  Indeed,  they  were  children.  Their 
superstitions  entered  into  every  phase  of  daily  life. 
And  such  wonderfully  curious  superstitions !  An 
American  child  to-day  would  be  ashamed  to  believe 
the  stuff  that  brave  men  had  faith  in  then.  Though 
our  own  forefathers  were  perhaps  quite  as  super 
stitious  as  they,  a  few  generations  brought  enlight 
enment.  But  while  we  have  been  climbing  to  the 
height  of  civilization,  this  out-of-the-way  corner  of 
the  nation  —  so  different  from  all  the  rest  in  phys 
ical  appearance,  in  customs  and  manners,  in  ideas 
and  ambitions  —  has  been  very  nearly  at  a  stand 
still. 

During  the  forty  years  that  New  Mexico  has 
been  under  our  flag,  she  has  changed  for  the  better, 
but  the  change  is  little  more  than  skin-deep.  The 
ideas  and  the  customs  of  the  great  majority  of  her 
people  are  almost  as  un-American  as  the  ideas  and 
customs  of  the  Zulus.  Her  sparsely  settled  area 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-two  thousand  square 
miles  holds  more  that  is  quaint  and  wonderful, 
more  of  the  Dark  Ages,  more  that  the  civilized 
world  long  ago  outgrew,  than  all  the  rest  of  the 


THREE  LIVE   WITCHES.  125 

country  put  together ;  and  to-day  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  things  within  her  bare,  brown  borders 
is  the  survival  and  prevalence  of  witchcraft. 

There  are  not  now  nearly  as  many  witches  in 
New  Mexico  as  there  were  a  few  years  ago,  but 
there  are  enough  —  if  popular  belief  is  accepted. 
Of  course  I  am  speaking  now  from  the  New  Mex 
ican  standpoint,  to  which  the  small,  educated  class 
looks  back  with  indulgent  incredulity,  but  in  which 
the  common  people  believe  as  sincerely  as  did  the 
Puritans  when  they  burned  poor  old  women  at  the 
stake  "  because  they  were  witches."  Of  the  little 
Mexican  hamlets  in  the  more  secluded  corners  of 
the  Territory,  there  are  few  which  cannot  still 
boast  a  resident  witch,  in  whose  malignant  powers 
the  simple  villagers  have  firmest  faith,  and  the 
story  of  whose  alleged  doings  would  fill  a  large 
volume. 

I  had  the  probably  unprecedented  privilege,  a 
short  time  ago,  of  photographing  three  live  witches 
as  they  stood  in  the  door  of  their  little  adobe 
house  —  Antonia  Morales  and  Placida  Morales, 
sisters,  and  Villa,  the  daughter  of  Placida,  and 
not  more  than  seventeen  years  old.  All  three  live 
in  the  little  village  of  San  Rafael,  which  lies  be 
side  the  beautiful  Gallo  Spring  in  the  fertile  valley 
behind  that  great,  black  lava-flow  which,  centuries 
ago,  ran  down  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Puerco  — 
"  Dirty  River  "  —  from  the  now  extinct  craters  of 
the  Zuni  Mountains.  Their  house  is  about  in  the 


126  THREE  LIVE   WITCHES. 

centre  of  the  straggling  village.  Only  a  few  hun 
dred  feet  away  stands  the  little  Presbyterian  mis 
sion  schoolhouse,  where  thirty  or  forty  Mexican 
children  are  learning  to  read  and  write,  to  speak 
English  and  "  do  sums,"  under  the  charge  of  two 
young  ladies  from  the  East.  The  little  church  is 
even  closer. 

But  a  majority  of  the  people  believe  more 
heartily  in  the  witches  than  they  do  in  the  school. 
The  town  is  much  in  awe  of  these  three  lone 
women.  No  one  cares  to  refuse  when  they  ask 
for  food  or  other  favors.  They  will  do  almost 
anything  rather  than  incur  the  displeasure  of  the 
brujas,  as  the  witches  are  called.  Any  one  can 
tell  you  direful  tales  of  what  befell  those  who 
were  rash  enough  to  offend  them.  Queer  reading 
these  witch  stories  make  in  this  day  and  country. 
Here  are  some  of  the  remarkable  tales  which  I 
hear  from  the  believing  lips  of  "  the  oldest  inhabi 
tants  " :  — 

Francisco  Ansures,  a  good-looking  young  Mexi 
can,  whose  adobe  house  is  one  of  the  six  that  con 
stitute  the  little  village  of  Cerros  Cuates,  had  the 
misfortune  four  years  ago  to  offend  one  of  the 
witches.  I  say  his  misfortune,  for  he  did  not 
know,  until  the  penalty  came  upon  him,  that  he 
had  offended,  and  to  this  day  is  not  aware  what 
particular  evil  he  did  to  her.  But  the  witch  knew, 
and  punished  him  for  his  deed,  whatever  it  may 
have  been. 


THREE  LIVE   WITCHES.  127 

She  said  nothing  at  the  time,  but  waited  pa 
tiently  till  one  day  she  had  a  chance  to  give  him 
a  cup  of  coffee.  He  drank  the  decoction  unsus 
pectingly.  In  a  few  minutes  thereafter  he  was 
horrified  to  see  that  his  hair  had  grown  two  feet 
in  length,  and  that  his  rough  overalls  had  turned 
to  petticoats.  Still  worse,  when  he  cried  out  in 
dismay,  his  pleasant  tenor  voice  had  become  a 
squeaky  treble. 

In  a  word,  he  had  been  turned  into  a  woman  — 
at  least,  that  is  what  he  says,  and  what  his  indus 
trious  little  wife  maintains  to  this  day.  They 
declare  that  he  remained  a  woman  for  several 
months,  and  recovered  his  proper  sex  only  by  pay 
ing  a  male  witch  who  lived  in  the  Canon  de  Juan 
Tafoya  to  turn  him  back  again. 

A  witch  named  Marcelina  —  a  poor,  withered 
little  woman  about  fifty  years  old  —  was  stoned  to 
death  in  San  Mateo,  thirty  miles  north  of  San 
Rafael,  in  1887,  because  she  had  "  turned  Don  Jose* 
Patricio  Marino  into  a  woman,  and  made  Senor 
Montano  very  lame." 

Montano  is  still  lame ;  but  not  nearly  so  much 
so  as  before  he  helped  to  kill  poor  old  Marcelina. 
That  pious  act  not  only  relieved  his  feelings,  but 
soothed  his  distorted  muscles  also.  Marino  is 
again  a  man  —  and  one  of  very  good  standing  in 
San  Mateo  —  having  hired  another  witch  to  re- 
transform  him  into  a  man's  shape. 

In  the  Pueblo  Indian  town  of  Zia,  less  than  ten 


128  THREE  LIVE   WITCHES. 

years  ago,  lived  a  witch  who  was  quietly  but  per- 
severingly  causing  all  the  children  of  the  place 
to  die  one  after  the  other.  At  last  the  people 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  arose  in  a  mass  to 
wipe  her  out,  but  found  their  efforts  vain.  The 
priest  refused  to  come  from  his  home  in  a  neigh 
boring  town  to  help  them,  so  they  enlisted  the 
sacristan  —  one  of  their  own  number,  who  had 
charge  of  the  church.  He  marched  at  the  head 
of  the  mob,  carrying  a  jar  of  holy  water,  which  he 
had  taken  from  the  church.  As  they  came  near, 
the  poor  old  woman  fled,  with  the  mob  in  howling 
pursuit.  Just  as  they  were  about  to  overtake  her, 
she  suddenly  turned  herself  into  a  dog,  and  soon 
distanced  them.  They  got  their  horses  and  ran 
her  down ;  but  she  changed  again  to  a  coyote  and 
ran  faster  than  ever. 

It  took  the  riders  nearly  all  day  to  catch  up  with 
her  again;  and  then  the  coyote  became  a  cat  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  ran  up  a  tall  tree. 
They  tried  in  vain  to  shake  her  down ;  but  when 
the  sacristan  arrived  he  threw  some  holy  water  up 
the  tree  so  that  it  splashed  on  her,  and  down  she 
tumbled  like  a  rock,  changing  back  to  her  human 
shape  as  she  dropped. 

The  crowd  fell  upon  her  with  clubs  and  hatch 
ets  and  beat  her  head  and  body  fearfully ;  but  still 
she  lived  and  groaned,  though  any  one  of  her 
hundred  wounds  was  enough  to  kill  a  strong  man. 

"  Untie  the  knot !     Untie  the  knot !  "  she  kept 


THREE  LIVE   WITCHES.  129 

screaming,  and  at  last  a  man  who  was  not  too  in 
furiated  to  hear,  stooped  down  and  untied  a  queer 
little  knot  which  he  found  in  one  corner  of  her 
blood-soaked  blanket.  The  instant  that  was 
loosed  her  spirit  took  its  flight. 

Nicolas  Marino,  brother  of  Patricio,  once  saw 
a  big  ball  of  fire  alight  in  the  arroyo  which  runs 
through  the  town  of  San  Mateo.  'Coulas,  as  he  is 
familiarly  called,  is  a  brave  man ;  and  though  he 
knew  this  must  be  a  witch,  he  started  in  pursuit. 
Just  as  he  reached  it,  the  ball  of  fire  turned  into 
a  big  rat,  which  ran  off  through  the  grass.  When 
he  caught  up  with  the  rat,  it  changed  to  a  huge 
dog,  which  growled  savagely,  sprang  clear  over 
his  head,  and  disappeared  among  the  willows. 

Juana  Garcia,  a  woman  of  San  Mateo,  had  a 
daughter  named  Maria  Acacia,  who  was  taken 
suddenly  sick  in  the  evening.  As  Juana  went 
outside  to  gather  some  herbs  for  medicine,  she 
saw  an  unknown  animal  prowling  about  the  house, 
and  caught  it.  No  sooner  did  she  get  her  hands 
on  it  than  it  turned  into  a  woman,  whom  she 
recognized  as  Salia,  the  witch  daughter  of  Witch 
Marcelina. 

"Cure  my  daughter,"  cried  Juana,  "or  I  will 
have  you  killed !  " 

Salia  promised,  and  was  allowed  to  go.  But 
when  morning  came  Maria  was  no  better.  Juana 
went  straight  to  Salia's  house  and  demanded,  with 
natural  indignation :  — 


130  THREE  LIVE   WITCHES. 

"Why  didn't  you  cure  my  daughter,  as  you 
promised  you  would?  " 

"  Pooh !  I  don't  believe  she  is  sick,"  answered 
Salia.  "  We'll  go  and  see." 

The  witch  was  a  better  walker  than  the  mother, 
and  reached  the  house  first.  When  Juana  arrived 
she  found  Maria  making  tortillas  —  a  Mexican 
bread,  shaped  like  a  flapjack,  cooked  on  a  hot 
stone,  and  so  durable  that  it  is  often  carried  for 
days  at  the  pommel  of  the  traveller's  saddle.  The 
witch  had  gone,  and  the  girl  was  as  well  as  ever. 

44  What  did  she  do  to  you?"  asked  the  astonished 
mother. 

44  She  just  took  some  ashes  from  the  fireplace, 
and  rubbed  them  on  my  arms,  and  I  got  up  well," 
replied  Maria. 

Juan  Baca  is  one  of  the  best-known  characters 
among  the  common  people  in  this  part  of  the 
country.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Order  of  the 
Penitentes  —  that  strange  brotherhood  of  fanatics 
who  whip  their  bare  backs  through  Lent  to  expiate 
the  sins  of  the  year,  bear  huge  crosses,  fill  them 
selves  with  the  agonizing  needles  of  the  cactus,  and 
wind  up  on  Good  Friday  by  crucifying  one  of 
their  number. 

His  wife  once  refused  coffee  to  Salia,  who  went 
away  angry.  Next  day  a  sore  formed  on  Senora 
Baca's  nose,  and  small,  white  pebbles  kept  dropping 
therefrom.  Juan  knew  what  was  the  matter,  and 
going  to  Salia's  house,  he  said :  — 


THREE  LIVE  WITCHES.  131 

"Look,  you  have  bewitched  my  wife.  If  you 
don't  cure  her  at  once,  I  will  hang  you." 

" It  is  well,"  answered  Salia;  "I  will  cure  her." 

Juan  went  home  contented.  But  his  wife  grew 
worse  instead  of  better;  and  taking  his  long  reata, 
with  its  easy  slipping  noose  at  one  end,  he  went 
again  to  Salia's. 

"  I  have  come  to  hang  you,"  said  he. 

"  No,  don't !  I'll  come  right  over ! "  cried  Salia ; 
and  over  she  went  with  him.  She  gave  the  sick 
woman  a  little  black  powder,  and  rubbed  her  nose 
once.  Out  came  a  sinew  four  inches  long,  and 
instantly  the  nose  was  as  well  as  ever. 

These  are  only  samples  —  I  could  tell  you  a 
hundred  more  —  of  the  stories  implicitly  believed 
by  thousands  of  people  in  this  far-off  corner  of  the 
United  States.  Their  superstitions  as  to  the  gen 
eral  traits  of  the  witches  are  no  less  curious  and 
foolish.  It  is  believed  that  the  witches  can  do 
anything  they  wish,  but  that  they  never  wish  to 
do  a  good  act  unless  bribed  or  scared  into  it. 
They  never  injure  dumb  brutes,  but  confine  their 
evil  spells  to  human  beings  who  have,  knowingly 
or  unwittingly,  incurred  their  wrath. 

At  night  they  go  flying  to  the  mountains  to 
meet  other  witches;  and  hundreds  of  ignorant 
people  declare  that  they  have  seen  them  sailing 
through  the  dark  sky  like  balls  of  fire.  Before 
leaving  home  they  always  exchange  their  own  legs 
and  eyes  for  those  of  a  dog,  cat,  or  coyote,  cry  out 


132  THEEE  LIVE  WITCHES. 

"Sin  Dios  y  sin  Santa  Maria"  which  signifies, 
"Without  God  and  without  the  Virgin  Mary," 
and  then  fly  off.  Juan  Perea,  a  male  witch  who 
died  in  San  Mateo  in  1888,  once  met  with  a  sin 
gular  misfortune.  He  had  taken  the  eyes  of  a  cat 
for  one  of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  leaving  his  own 
eyes  on  the  table.  During  his  absence  a  dog 
knocked  the  table  over  and  ate  the  eyes ;  and  the 
unlucky  witch  had  to  finish  his  days  with  the 
green  eyes  of  a  cat.  Luckily,  the  dog  did  not  eat 
his  legs,  which  were  old  and  tough,  or  I  don't 
know  how  he  would  have  got  along. 

Any  one  named  Juan  (John)  can  catch  a  witch 
by  going  through  a  curious  rigmarole.  He  draws 
a  large  circle  on  the  ground,  seats  himself  inside  it, 
turns  his  shirt  wrong  side  out,  and  cries,  "  In  the 
name  of  God  I  call  thee,  bruja,  "  and  straightway 
whatever  witch  is  near  must  fall  helpless  inside  his 
circle.  Every  one  who  lives  here  can  tell  you  that 
a  Juan  has  this  power ;  but  he  seldom  uses  it,  for 
he  knows  that  if  he  does  so  all  the  witches  in  the 
country  will  fall  upon  him  and  beat  him  mercilessly 
to  death. 

Another  curious  superstition  prevalent  here  is 
that  if  you  stick  a  couple  of  needles  into  a  broom 
so  that  they  form  a  little  cross,  and  put  it  behind 
the  door  when  a  witch  is  in  your  house,  the  witch 
cannot  get  out  of  that  door  until  a  dog  or  a  person 
has  passed  out  ahead. 

This  superstition  was  employed  on  one  occasion 


THREE  LIVE  WITCHES.  133 

to  tease  a  woman  who  passed  for  a  witch.  Not 
very  long  ago,  this  reputed  witch  visited  the  house 
of  some  refined  and  educated  Spanish  friends  of 
mine  in  San  Mateo,  and  one  of  the  young  ladies 
made  the  needle  experiment. 

The  witch  started  several  times  to  go  out,  but 
each  time  paused  at  the  door  for  some  one  else  to 
precede  her.  All  roguishly  hung  back,  and  she 
was  there  nearly  all  day.  At  last  a  child  went 
out,  and  the  witch  rushed  out  after.  Probably  she 
had  noticed  the  trick,  and  wished  to  keep  up  the 
deceptive  reputation  of  witchcraft. 

The  sign  of  the  cross,  or  the  spoken,  name  of 
God  or  one  of  the  saints,  stops  a  witch  at  once.  I 
know  people  here  who  assert  that  they  were  being 
carried  on  a  witch's  back,  thousands  of  miles  a 
minute,  to  some  distant  destination  ;  but  that  when 
they  became  alarmed,  and  cried,  "  God  save  me  !  " 
they  instantly  fell  hundreds  of  feet  —  without 
being  hurt  —  and  found  themselves  alone  in  a 
great  wilderness. 

School  and  church  are  gradually  killing  off  these 
strange  and  childish  superstitions,  but  they  die 
hard,  and  it  will  be  many  a  year  before  New 
Mexico  will  be  bereft  of  her  last  reputed  witch. 


HOW  TO  THEOW   THE   LASSO. 


THE  "biggest  half"  of  this  world  is  what  my 
Mexican  and  Indian  neighbors  here  in  New  Mexico 
call  "  el  saber"  —  "  the  know  how."  Even  the  great 
mechanical  inventions  require  skill  in  their  use  ; 
and  still  more  striking  is  the  power  of  "  the  know 
how "  in  getting  wonderful  results  from  very 
simple  means.  Perhaps  there  is  no  better  example 
of  this  than  the  lasso  affords.  That  which  is  to 
the  vast  majority  of  Americans  a  mere  rope  with 
a  loop  at  one  end,  good  for  tying  or  hanging  up  or 
drawing  things,  becomes  in  some  hands  one  of  the 
most  astonishingly  effective  weapons  in  the  world. 
It  is  a  hempen  rifle  which  needs  no  loading  and 
has  no  more  report  than  a  snowflake ;  which  is  as 
accurate  as  a  bullet  within  its  range,  and  kills  its 
game  or  secures  it  unscratched,  with  equal  ease 
and  certainty;  a  trap  which  does  not  await  the 
uncertain  coming  of  a  victim,  but  runs  after  him 
and  shuts  down  on  him  and  holds  him  as  with 
teeth  of  steel.  And  as  nearly  all  weapons  are  also 
adapted  to  amusement,  this  magic  rope  is  one  of 
the  most  fascinating  of  toys,  beside  which  rifle 
practice,  archery,  and  similar  diversions,  are  very 
134 


HOW  TO   THBOW  THE  LASSO.  135 

tame  indeed.  A  great  advantage,  too,  is  that  it  is 
never  dangerous  unless  the  user  designs  it  to  be  — 
a  virtue  possessed  by  no  other  weapon  —  and  it  is 
as  easy  to  learn  as  real  expertness  with  rifle  or 
bow. 

There  is  but  one  race  in  the  United  States  which 
is,  as  a  race,  expert  in  the  use  of  the  lasso  —  the 
Spanish  speaking  people.  It  is  peculiarly  their  in 
stitution  —  one  which  they  first  brought  here  from 
South  America,  and  one  still  chiefly  confined  to 
that  part  of  the  United  States  which  they  occupy, 
the  Southwest.  Thousands  of  Western  Ameri 
cans,  however,  and  most  of  the  Southwestern  In 
dians  are  handy  with  la  reata  —  the  proper  name 
of  the  lasso,  "  lariat "  being  a  Texas  corruption. 

There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  any  Amer 
ican  boy  with  common  outdoor  pluck  may  not 
become  an  expert  with  the  reata  if  he  desires,  and 
I  have  been  often  asked  to  tell  him  how.  I  am 
very  glad  to  do  so,  for  it  is  a  beautiful  and  useful 
accomplishment,  and  a  noble  training  to  eye  and 
hand,  and  I  wish  all  my  young  countrymen  were 
as  clever  at  it  as  is  my  Indian  friend,  Francisco, 
who  has  kindly  come  over  to  let  me  photograph 
him  in  the  positions  desired  to  make  my  descrip 
tion  perfectly  clear. 

The  standard  lasso  is  forty  feet  long,  and  from 
one-fourth  to  three-eighths  of  an  inch  in  thickness. 
The  best  are  of  pleated  rawhide ;  but  they  cannot 
be  had  in  the  East,  and  only  an  expert  can  make 


136  HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO. 

one.  They  are  preferred  for  "  cow-work  "  —  the 
various  duties  of  the  cowboy,  which  include  not 
only  lassoing,  but  dragging  cattle  from  bogs,  etc., 
— because  of  their  combined  lightness,  strength, 
and  freedom  from  kinks.  If  the  learner  becomes 
sufficiently  expert  to  make  it  worth  while,  he  can 
then  procure  one  of  these  pleated  lassos  from  any 
large  saddlery  house  in  San  Francisco  or  Albu 
querque,  or  probably  Kansas  City,  for  about  eight 
dollars. 

An  ordinary  rope,  however,  is  the  proper  thing 
to  learn  with ;  and,  indeed,  many  cowboys  use  it 
altogether,  because  of  its  cheapness.  It  is  almost 
as  good,  in  every  way,  as  the  pleated  reata,  and 
costs  only  a  twentieth  as  much. 

Get  a  three-eighths  inch  hemp  rope,  forty-one 
feet  long ;  secure  the  end  from  fraying  by  winding 
tightly  with  waxed  shoemaker's  or  carpet  thread, 
and  make  the  honda  (loop)  by  "  grafting "  the 
other  end  back  on  the  rope,  and  wind  the  graft  in 
the  same  way.  Never  tie  knots.  The  honda 
should  be  two  or  four  inches  in  diameter,  so  as  to 
let  the  rope  play  through  it  with  perfect  freedom. 

Having  the  lasso  thus  made,  give  it  two  hours  in 
clean  water ;  then  whip  it  out  free  from  kinks,  and 
stretch  it  tight  between  two  posts  or  trees,  never 
putting  the  ends  around  the  posts,  but  stretching 
by  another  rope  at  each  end,  and  leave  it  there  till 
perfectly  dry.  Then  take  the  rear  or  hand  end  in 
your  left  hand,  and  with  the  right  coil  the  whole 


HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO.  137 

rope  into  that  hand,  toward  you,  in  a  coil  of  say 
two  feet  in  diameter,  taking  care  that  the  succes 
sive  coils  do  not  cross  or  twist  with  each  other,  but 
lie  flat  to  each  other  like  so  many  hoops  held  side 
by  side.  Tie  a  cord  through  and  around  the  coils 
on  one  side  to  keep  them  together,  and  hang  over 
a  peg  to  let  the  rope  "  get  accustomed."  The  reata, 
to  do  good  work,  should  always  be  thus  coiled  and 
hung  up  after  use,  otherwise  it  will  acquire  kinks, 
and  fail  to  work  just  when  you  want  it  most. 

Your  lasso  is  now  ready  for  use.  You  must,  of 
course,  at  first  practice  on  foot  and  at  a  stationary 
mark.  A  post  five  or  six  feet  high  is  best.  Begin 
at  a  distance  of  twelve  or  fifteen  feet,  which  may 
be  increased  as  you  gain  proficiency  to  the  range  of 
your  rope  —  thirty-five  feet.  That  is  far  enough 
to  throw  a  lasso.  The  higher  distances  are 
attempted  only  by  rare  experts  with  extra  long 
ropes.  I  have  seen  one  lasso  his  running  target  at 
an  even  sixty  feet ;  but  he  was  the  only  man  I  ever 
saw  make  it  at  that  astounding  range. 

Taking  your  position,  whip  out  the  rope,  reeve 
the  hand-end  through  the  honda,  and  run  it  up  till 
the  noose  is  about  seven  feet  long.  Then  take  the 
hand-end  in  your  left  hand,  and  coil  the  rope 
carefully  to  it  until  you  are  within  six  feet  of  the 
noose.  Take  the  rope  a  foot  on  each  side  of 
the  honda  together  in  your  right  hand,  thus  mak 
ing  a  temporary  extra  loop  to  prevent  the  honda 
from  slipping  forward  and  shutting  the  noose. 


138  HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO. 

Now  you  are  ready  to  "  aim."  Stand  with  your 
right  foot  a  little  forward,  lift  the  right  arm  till 
the  fist  easily  clears  the  head  —  about  as  in  swing 
ing  Indian  clubs  —  and  begin  to  revolve  the  noose 
over  your  head  with  an  easy  motion  of  the  arm 
from  right  to  left,  and  a  perfectly  flexible  wrist. 
It  is  the  wrist  that  does  the  chief  work  here,  as 
in  most  other  matters  of  dexterity.  Whirl  the 
rope  just  fast  enough  so  that  you  can  guide  it 
into  a  plane  parallel  with  the  ground,  the  whole 
noose  revolving  on  a  level  as  if  it  were  a  wheel  of 
which  your  uplifted  arm  is  the  axle. 

When  you  have  the  noose  going  thus  horizon 
tally,  and  have  calculated  as  well  as  you  can  the 
force  necessary  to  carry  it  over  the  post,  give  a 
quick  step  forward  with  the  left  foot  just  as  your 
arm  is  coming  around  from  back  to  front ;  and  in 
the  same  instant,  bringing  your  hand  (palm  down 
ward)  forward  and  down  to  the  level  of  the 
shoulder,  but  at  full  armlength  and  without  break 
ing  the  rhythm  of  the  sweep,  let  go. 

If  you  have  done  this  properly  the  noose  will 
go  sailing  forward  like  a  hoop,  in  a  plane  almost 
parallel  to  the  ground.  Whether  it  falls  over  the 
post  is  a  matter  about  which  you  need  not  worry 
for  some  time.  The  first  great  difficulty  is  to 
send  the  noose  level;  and  when  you  have  mas 
tered  that  the  proper  cultivation  of  force  will 
come  soon  enough  with  practice. 

The  coil  in  the  left  hand  must  of  course  be  held 


HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO.  139 

loosely  in  fingers  upcurved  but  not  closed,  so  that 
it  may  "pay  out"  easily  as  the  noose  "calls." 
The  end,  or  the  last  coil,  should  be  securely  held, 
however,  as  it  has  to  be  in  real  lassoing. 

When  you  can  guide  the  noose  surely  at  the 
first  range,  increase  your  distance  from  the  post 
little  by  little.  In  time  you  will  be  able  to  "bag" 
the  post  every  shot  at  thirty-five  feet.  Then  it  is 
time  to  begin  practice  on  moving  objects  —  an 
accommodating  chum  for  instance.  Let  him  run 
slowly,  and  pursue  him,  whirling  the  noose  over 
head  as  you  run,  until  you  can  make  a  throw.  It 
will  take  longer  to  learn  to  calculate  his  speed  and 
where  to  throw  in  order  to  get  his  head,  but  it  can 
be  done  by  practice,  and  the  practice  is  "good 
fun." 

If  you  ride  you  may  now  begin  horseback  work; 
first  standing  and  at  a  post;  then  loping  slowly 
and  trying  to  rope  something  stationary  but  not 
fixed  —  like  a  shock  of  corn,  or  anything  light. 
To  rope  a  post  while  riding  would  hurt  you  a 
good  deal  more  than  the  post ;  and  whatever  you 
cast  at,  while  in  motion,  you  must  at  the  same 
instant  take  a  sharp  turn  around  the  horn  of  your 
saddle  with  the  free  end  of  the  rope.  Last  of  all, 
if  you  have  an  available  animal  you  may  practice 
real  lassoing  without  hurting  it. 

Head-lassoing  is  as  far  as  the  average  youth 
will  ever  care  to  go ;  and  how  to  do  that  I  have 
explained.  The  supreme  skill  with  which  the 


140  HOW  TO  THROW  THE  LASSO. 

best  experts  lasso  a  running  animal  by  either  hind 
or  fore  legs  —  which  is  done  by  throwing  the 
noose  forward  close  to  the  ground  in  front  of  the 
hurrying  hoof,  with  so  nice  a  calculation  that 
the  next  step  will  take  the  hoof  within  the  noose 
before  the  noose  has  quite  fallen  flat ;  and  with  a 
backward  jerk  so  well  timed  and  rapid  that  it 
shuts  the  noose  upon  the  leg  before  the  hoof  can 
be  out  again  —  is  something  to  be  acquired  only 
by  very  long  and  patient  practice.  But  the  youth 
who  has  learned  head-lassoing  has  all  the  neces 
sary  knowledge  for  the  last  branch,  and  can 
acquire  that,  too,  if  he  have  the  necessary  perse 
verance. 


"OLD   SURELY.77 


OLD  MONNY  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  door  of 
the  cabin.  No  one  was  in  sight.  Over  to  the 
Northeast,  fifty  miles  away,  the  blue-white  pyra 
mid  of  Pike's  Peak  pierced  the  sky.  Nearly  as 
far  to  the  Southeast  were  the  purple  mountains 
through  whose  granite  heart  the  Arkansaw  River 
had  gnawed  its  wonderful  chasm.  All  around, 
close  at  hand,  he  looked  down  upon  a  wilderness 
of  lesser  peaks,  seamed  with  wild  canons,  beet 
ling  with  awful  cliffs,  patched  with  the  shifting 
shadows  of  the  great  white  cumuli  above.  Old 
Monny  had  not  what  would  be  called  a  poetic 
nature ;  and  he  had  lived  long  enough  among  the 
marvelous  scenery  of  Colorado  to  find  little  novelty 
in  it  now ;  yet  the  charm  of  the  high,  clear  air  and 
the  outlook  did  seem  to  make  a  bit  of  an  impres 
sion,  even  on  Monny.  "  Dreadful  beautiful  day," 
he  muttered  to  himself,  throwing  his  head  back 
and  drawing  a  great  breath  of  the  bracing  air. 
"  Wonder  whar  thet  there  Jim  is  ?  Ought  to  'a' 
been  back  fr'm  Beaver  Creek  two  hour  ago." 

Old  Monny,  as  every  one  called  him,  was  not 
an  old  man,  though  by  no  means  a  young  one. 


142  "OLD  SURELY.11 

His  long,  matted  hair  and  beard  were  well 
streaked  with  gray,  but  his  eye  was  keen  as  a 
hawk's,  his  step  quick  and  light,  and  his  figure 
erect  as  a  Comanche's.  As  for  strength  and 
agility,  there  were  few  younger  men  in  the  area 
he  roved  over  who  could  throw  Old  Monny  in  a 
rough  and  tumble,  or  "pack"  a  heavier  load  on 
their  backs  than  he.  A  trapper  and  hunter  by 
instinct  and  long  habit,  he  had  stuck  steadfastly 
to  the  calling  of  his  choice ;  and  while  others  all 
around  him  were  tearing  up  the  sands  of  the 
mountain  streams  in  search  of  placer  gold,  or 
rending  the  rocky  ribs  of  the  mountains  in  excited 
pursuit  of  the  veins  of  gold  or  silver,  Old  Monny 
attended  to  his  traps  and  his  rifle  with  unswerving 
constancy.  He  had  little  love  for  the  miners. 
"  They  drives  the  beaver  V  trout  out'n  the  cricks, 
'n'  skeers  the  game  out'n  the  hills,"  he  used  to  say, 
"  'n'  wot  fur  ?  Jes'  to  slave  their  lives  out  'n'  git 
nuthin'.  I'd  sooner  be  a  dog  with  my  back  broke 
in  a  wildcat's  den." 

Monny  went  back  into  the  cabin,  and  was  still 
busy  about  something  inside  when  a  tall,  lank,  red 
headed  fellow  came  slouching  up  the  trail  with  a 
heavy  Winchester  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm. 

"Wai,  Monny,  I  done  packed  'n'  cashayed1 
the  beaver  traps,  'n'  got  all  ready  down  below  to 
move  over  to  La  Veta.  But  I  'How  ez  how  we  bet- 

1  Buried,  a  corruption  of  the  French  trappers'  word  cache. 


" OLD  SURELY."  143 

ter  not  start  till  to-morrow.  I  seen  s'me  elk  over 
on  the  Black  Ridge,  'n'  elk's  gettin'  too  skase 
now  to  leggo.  Wot  do  yo'  say  ef  we  take  a  pasear 
over  thar  'n'  try  to  get  one  or  two  on  'em  ?  " 

Monny  had  emerged,  with  an  unusual  air  of  inter 
est.  "  Wai,  now,  Jim,  I  did  'How  we'd  oughter  be 
over  to  Veta  to-night ;  but 's  yo'  say,  elk's  purty 
-thin  nowadays  with  these  miners  monkeyin'  round. 
I  reck'n  we  best  git  the  elk  fust  —  the  beaver  k'n 
wait." 

There  was  little  preparation  needed,  and  in  per 
haps  three  minutes  more  the  two  men  were  strid 
ing  down  the  trail  toward  a  deep  canon  on  the 
north.  Monny  carried  his  favorite  old  Kentucky 
"  squirrel  rifle  "  —  a  venerable  muzzle-loader  of 
immense  length  and  weight,  but  of  caliber  no 
larger  than  a  pea.  He  was  often  jested  with  about 
"Old  Surely,"  but  never  could  be  persuaded  to 
discard  it  for  one  of  the  modern  breech-loading 
magazine  rifles.  "  She's  slow,  but  she's  sure,"  he 
used  always  to  reply,  "  'n'  I  never  did  get  in  no  sech 
place  but  ol'  Surely  wuz  fast  enough  to  fetch  me 
out.  Them  pump-guns  wot  yo'  loads  Sunday  'n' 
shoots  all  the  rest  o'  the  week,  is  good  f'r  tender 
foots  'n'  them  ez  gets  rattled,  but  one  shot  'n'  take 
yo'r  time  about  it  's  good  'nough  f'r  hunters. 
Hevin'  too  many  charges  in  yo'r  gun  spiles  good 
shootinV 

Descending  the  precipitous  trail  into  the  cafion, 
they  were  soon  climbing  an  equally  precipitous  one 


144  "OLD  SUEELY." 

on  the  other  side.  Most  men  would  have  been 
glad  to  rest  on  such  a  climb  about  every  hundred 
yards,  but  Monny  and  Jim  plodded  on  unhesitat 
ingly,  as  though  it  were  child's  play.  At  last  they 
reached  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  were  about  to 
turn  at  right  angles  to  their  former  course  and 
follow  the  ridge  to  the  flank  of  the  mountain 
whence  it  sprung,  when  Monny  suddenly  stopped 
and  pointed  to  the  top  of  a  high  cliff  near  the  head 
of  the  next  canon.  There  were  five  tiny  dots 
against  the  sky. 

"  Mount'n  sheep !  "  whispered  Monny.  "  I  How 
ez  how  a  hunk  o'  cimarron  meat  wouldn't  go  so 
mighty  bad,  nuther.  We'll  go  down  into  this  nex' 
canon  V  foller  up  it  to  make  a  sneak  on  'em." 

So  down  over  the  sides  of  Dead  Man's  Canon 
they  went  clambering  —  more  cautiously  now, 
both  for  fear  of  frightening  the  keen-eyed  sheep, 
and  because  it  was  more  dangerous  climbing. 
Three  prospectors  had  been  killed  here  by  Utes, 
years  before,  and  hence  the  canon  took  its  uncanny 
name.  It  was  much  deeper  and  more  precipitous 
than  the  one  from  which  they  had  just  emerged ; 
and  it  was  only  by  the  utmost  care  and  by  many 
detours  that  they  reached  the  bottom  safely.  It 
was  a  savage  and  forbidding  gorge,  four  or  five 
miles  long,  and  hemmed  by  walls  a  thousand  feet 
high  which  came  closer  and  closer  and  became 
more  and  more  beetling  as  they  went  on.  The 
dry  torrent  bed  at  the  bottom  was  choked  with 


"OLD  SURELY.11  145 

enormous  rocks  —  some  round  boulders,  and  some 
vast,  flat  slabs  pried  from  the  cliffs  by  the  stealthy 
but  persevering  frosts  of  ages. 

Monny  was  a  couple  of  rods  ahead,  clambering 
over  the  boulders,  when  a  wild  shriek  rang  through 
the  lonely  canon  and  multiplied  from  echoing  cliff 
to  cliff.  He  whirled  in  his  tracks  and  looked  back 
ward —  to  a  sight  that  made  even  his  stout  hunter's 
heart  stand  still.  There,  on  a  tiny  patch  of  yellow 
sand,  lay  Jim,  quite  motionless,  while  above  him 
towered  a  huge  cinnamon  bear,  upreared  on  its 
haunches,  its  little  black  eyes  twinkling  devilishly. 
It  was  the  largest  bear  the  veteran  hunter  had  ever 
seen  in  his  twenty-five  years  among  the  Rockies  — 
as  big  as  a  steer.  From  one  gigantic  fore-paw 
warm  blood  and  brains  were  dripping.  A  great 
slab  of  stone  leaned  against  the  bank  there,  form 
ing  a  sort  of  cave.  The  bear  with  the  fearful 
cunning  of  his  kind,  had  evidently  waited  there 
till  they  were  past,  and  then  rushing  out  had  felled 
poor  Jim  with  one  swipe  of  that  ponderous  paw, 
crushing  his  skull  like  an  egg-shell. 

Monny  threw  "  Old  Surely "  to  a  level.  He 
dared  not  fire  for  the  brain  —  the  hunter's  point 
always  in  a  desperate  case  —  for  the  bear  was  erect 
and  the  head  held  in  such  a  way  that  a  ball  was 
more  than  apt  to  glance  from  the  thick  skull ;  the 
heart  was  his  only  chance,  and  at  the  heart  he 
fired.  Old  Monny  was  a  man  who  never  missed  a 
shot,  and  when  they  cut  up  the  bear  afterwards 


146  "OLD  SURELY." 

there  was  a  little  hole  through  the  very  centre  of 
the  big  heart.  Had  Monny's  rifle  been  a  "  buffalo 
gun  "  —  one  of  the  ponderous  old  Sharpe's,  throw 
ing  three  hundred  and  fifty  grains  of  lead,  and 
never  equalled  for  such  work  by  any  of  the  later 
and  better-looking  rifles — that  would  have  been 
enough.  But  the  little  pea-bullet,  while  it  would 
kill,  could  not  give  sufficient  shock  to  cause  instant 
death  to  anything  of  the  wonderful  vitality  of  the 
cinnamon  bear.  Monny  knew  it,  and  before  the 
echoes  of  his  shot  had  begun  to  die  away  he  had 
rammed  down  the  powder  of  the  second  charge 
and  was  starting  the  bullet,  wrapped  in  its  little 
greasy  rag,  down  the  long  barrel.  Then  he  started 
to  run,  ramming  as  he  went.  But  it  was  slow 
running  over  that  chaos  of  rocks,  and  behind  him 
was  a  foe  no  man  could  outrun  uphill.  Just  as  the 
bullet  reached  "  home,"  and  he  was  pulling  out  the 
ramrod,  a  terrible  blow  on  the  left  shoulder  sent 
him  sprawling  upon  the  rocks,  stunned  and  faint, 
with  a  hideous  pain  creeping  through  his  body, 
while  his  rifle  went  clanking  far  out  against  the 
rocks.  Before  he  could  move  the  bear  was  upon 
him.  Its  eyes  were  glazing  fast,  and  it  could  no 
longer  stand,  but  with  the  death-rattle  in  its  throat 
it  lay  across  his  body,  crunching  away  at  his 
right  leg.  Monny  had  drawn  his  heavy  hunting 
knife  and  dug  desperately  at  the  shaggy  side. 
But  it  was  not  needed.  He  felt  a  tremor  run 
through  the  gigantic  form,  and  an  instant  later  the 


"OLD  SURELY."  147 

bear  lurched  over  sidewise,  lifeless  as  the  boulders 
around. 

It  chanced  that  a  couple  of  prospectors  came 
up  the  canon  that  afternoon  to  trace  a  quartz 
"lead"  one  of  them  had  discovered  above.  They 
found  Jim  dead  and  Monny  lying  unconscious 
under  the  dead  bear,  their  mingled  blood  staining 
the  rocks  around.  They  made  a  rude  litter  of 
pinon  boughs,  and  lifting  Monny  with  gentle 
hands  as  women  might,  carried  him  down  to 
Beaver  Creek,  whence  they  sent  back  men  to  bury 
Jim  and  skin  the  bear. 

If  you  ever  take  the  cross-country  trail  from 
Colorado  Springs  to  Canon  City,  and  will  explore 
the  third  canon  below  the  head  of  Beaver  Creek, 
you  will  find  a  lonely  little  cabin  standing  out  on 
a  bare  plateau  of  rock.  In  front  of  the  door  you 
may  find  an  old  man  sunning  himself,  bent  over  a 
stout  cane.  Old  Monny?  Yes,  it  is  Monny;  but 
sadly  changed.  His  left  shoulder  crushed  and 
misshapen,  his  right  leg  only  skin  and  bone  from 
hip  to  ankle,  and  with  knotty  fractures  twisting  it 
in  a  dozen  different  directions  —  he  looks  little  like 
the  Monny  of  old  days.  Inside  the  cabin  "  Old 
Surely  "  hangs  across  a  couple  of  pegs,  and  upon 
the  floor  is  the  skin  —  eleven  feet  seven  inches 
from  tip  to  tip  —  of  the  largest  bear  ever  killed  in 
Colorado. 


THE   GALLO   RACE. 


IN  all  the  world  of  outdoor  sports  —  civilized, 
semi-civilized,  or  savage  —  there  is  none  more 
wildly  exciting  to  participants  and  spectators  alike, 
none  which  demands  greater  nerve,  agility,  endur 
ance,  and  skill,  and  none  more  picturesque  than 
the  favorite  holiday  diversion  of  the  Southwest, 
the  Gallo  Race,  or  "Running  for  the  Chicken." 
Our  polo,  noble  a  game  as  it  is,  is  a  very  tame 
affair  by  comparison. 

Gallo  racing  is  as  universal  an  institution  with 
the  Indian  and  Mexican  population  of  New  Mex 
ico  and  Arizona  as  is  baseball  with  the  country  at 
large.  Other  games  are  played  and  enjoyed,  but 
the  gallo  race  is  king  of  all.  Whenever  the  feast- 
day  of  some  saint  brings  wholesale  leisure  to 
Mexican  hamlet  or  Pueblo  (Indian)  town,  there  is 
pretty  certain  to  be  a  gallo  race  ;  and  particularly 
upon  the  day  of  San  Juan  (June  24)  there  is  not 
a  village  in  either  of  the  two  Territories  so  weak 
in  numbers  or  in  spirit  that  it  cannot  muster  the 
necessary  horses,  riders,  and  chickens. 

The  Indian  game  is  so  much  more  picturesque 
than  the  Mexican  that  I  shall  confine  myself  to 
148 


THE  GALLO  RACE.  149 

describing  it.  Not  that  the  descendants  of  the 
Spanish  heroes  who  were  the  first  real  pioneers  of 
this  new  world  are  indifferent  players  by  any 
means.  The  average  Mexican  youth,  when  in  the 
saddle,  is  a  serious  opponent  for  any  one  in  any  test 
of  skill.  But  the  numbers  engaged  are  generally 
much  smaller,  the  surroundings  less  unique,  the 
moral  atmosphere  less  clear,  and  the  appearance  of 
the  riders  in  ill-fitting  American  clothing  far  less 
striking.  To  see  the  game  in  all  its  glory  we  must 
go  to  one  of  the  larger  and  more  remote  Pueblo 
towns  —  for  instance,  Acoma,  in  one  of  the  west 
ern  counties  of  Mew  Mexico. 

The  quaint  adobe  city  of  Acoma  stands  on  an 
island  of  solid  rock,  which  rises  five  hundred  feet 
sheer  above  the  level  valley.  As  outposts  around 
it  tower  strange,  lofty  buttes  and  shafts  of  vari 
colored  sandstone. 

The  starting-point  of  the  race  is  a  sand-hill  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  mesa,  and  thither  the  crowd 
begins  to  drift  soon  after  noon.  The  edge  of  the 
cliff  is  lined  with  figures  that  look  from  below  no 
bigger  than  squirrels,  and  the  sand-hills  freckle 
with  brilliant  spots,  while  the  three  hundred  riders 
are  dashing  hither  and  yon,  with  wild  zest,  impa 
tient  for  the  sport  to  begin.  The  universal  color 
intensifies  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene.  Be 
hind,  the  giant  cliff,  sombre  with  shade,  but  beaded 
at  the  top  with  human  dots  in  red  and  white ;  the 
horses,  ranging  from  bay  to  white,  with  many 


150  THE  GALLO  RACE. 

beautiful  pintos  —  there  are  few  dark  horses  in  the 
Acoma  herds  —  with  brilliant  saddle-blankets  and 
flashing  silver  bridles ;  and  the  centaur-like  riders 
with  their  rich  maroon  moccasins  and  leggings, 
snow-white  cahones  and  shirts,  and  gay  blankets 
of  Navajo  weaving ;  the  billowy  sand-dunes  caught 
between  the  outpost  crags  of  rich-hued  sandstone, 
and  far  out  beyond,  the  broad,  brown  plain  with 
sentinel  rocks  standing  out  here  and  there,  clear 
across  to  the  dark  pines  of  the  Black  Mesa. 

But  now  there  is  a  sudden  scurrying  of  scattered 
horsemen  to  our  sand-hill,  and  at  its  foot  they  rein 
and  wheel  and  fix  their  eyes  on  two  old  men  who 
are  plodding  to  a  level  spot  at  the  foot  of  an  out 
lying  butte.  One  carries  a  tough  old  rooster,  its 
legs  tied  with  a  thong,  but  its  mouth  wide  in  pro 
test.  Kneeling  on  the  white  sand,  they  begin  to 
dig  vigorously  with  their  hands,  until  they  have 
pawed  out  a  hole  sufficient  to  receive  the  rooster. 
Here  the  vociferous  bird  is  planted,  and  the  sand 
is  raked  in  upon  it  until  only  its  head  and  a  couple 
of  inches  of  neck  are  left  above  ground.  Having 
made  sure  that  the  gallo  cannot  break  out  from  his 
prison,  the  old  men  step  back  and  lean  against  the 
lofty  rock.  There  is  a  moment  of  breathless 
expectancy ;  and  then  the  wrinkled  capitan  shouts 
"  Tho-ko  !  "  (go)  in  a  voice  that  rolls  from  cliff  to 
cliff. 

There  is  a  stir  among  the  huddled  horsemen; 
and  out  springs  a  boy  centaur,  his  eyes  flashing, 


THE  GALLO  EACH.  151 

his  long  jet  hair  streaming  back  upon  the  wind,  as 
he  drives  the  spurs  against  his  deer-like  pony,  and 
comes  flying  down  the  course  like  an  arrow  from 
the  bow,  while  the  people  cheer  him  on  with  their 
shrill  "Hi!  Ay!" 

The  pleated  reins  hang  loose  in  his  left  hand, 
his  body  seems  undulant  as  a  snake,  and  his  eye 
never  leaves  the  tiny  target.  Faster  he  comes  and 
faster,  and  just  as  he  sweeps  past  on  the  left  he 
swings  over  in  the  saddle  with  a  superb  swoop  like 
a  great  hawk  to  clutch  the  rooster's  head  with  his 
right  hand.  But  the  wary  bird,  seeming  to  grasp 
the  situation,  "ducks"  like  lightning,  and  he 
scoops  up  only  a  handful  of  sand  in  his  mad  flight. 
It  is  a  full  hundred  yards  ere  he  can  rein  in  his 
excited  horse. 

But  before  he  is  ten  yards  past  the  rooster  an 
other  horseman,  noting  his  failure,  is  spurring  for 
ward,  and  comes  with  the  rush  of  a  whirlwind, 
riding  as  only  an  Indian  can  ride.  He,  too,  swoops 
to  catch  that  elusive  head;  but  again  the  gallo 
dodges  successfully;  and  again  the  rider  "re 
covers"  and  comes  loping  back  to  the  starting- 
point  amid  the  good-natured  laughter  and  raillery 
of  the  crowd. 

And  now  comes  another  wild  rider,  clutching  in 
vain  as  he  thunders  past;  and  now  another,  and 
another  and  another,  until  they  are  almost  at  each 
others'  heels,  and  the  four  hundred  yards  of  the 
course  is  one  long  string  of  galloping  horses.  And 


152  THE  GALLO  RACE. 

here  comes  old  Martin  (pronounced  Marteen),  the 
long-time  Governor  of  Acoma,  on  a  fiery  buckskin 
pony.  Martin  is  close  upon  ninety,  and  fat  great 
grandchildren  tweak  his  whitening  hair  at  home  ; 
but  look  how  he  sits  in  his  saddle,  and  with  what 
a  supreme  grace  he  swings  over  till  his  long  hair  al 
most  sweeps  the  ground,  his  left  foot  up  to  the  very 
saddle-bow,  where  his  withered  left  hand  clings, 
while  the  withered  right,  with  fingers  spread  fork- 
like,  follows  an  inch  above  the  sand  in  line  with 
that  feathered  neck.  But  the  prize  is  not  for  Mar 
tin  to-day;  and  he  swings  back  to  his  saddle 
empty-handed. 

But  now  there  is  a  shout  that  shakes  the  very 
cliffs,  and  see  !  Yonder  goes  a  tall,  sinewy  youth 
on  a  magnificent  bay,  waving  above  his  head  a  red 
—  why !  It's  the  gallo  !  Without  a  break  in  that 
furious  gallop  he  is  off  toward  the  plain,  whooping 
defiance  ;  and  with  yells  as  wild,  the  others  nearest 
are  after  him.  The  two  hundred  horsemen  wait 
ing  at  the  goal  for  their  turn  leap  forward  as  one, 
and  down  the  narrow  passage  between  the  cliffs 
that  mad  chase  sweeps  like  an  avalanche  of  broken 
rainbows.  Some  spur  down  the  road  in  direct  pur 
suit  ;  and  some,  wheeling  to  right  and  left,  dash 
out  through  other  passes  betwen  the  buttes  to  cut 
him  off.  He,  with  the  prize  —  now  no  longer  a 
living  prize,  of  course  —  is  well  ahead,  urging 
his  horse  to  the  utmost  with  cries  and  spurs,  and 
blows  of  his  feathered  whip. 


THE  GALLO  RACK  153 

And  now  the  pursued  doubles  on  his  pursuers 
nimbly  as  a  rabbit,  and  conies  flying  back  like  a 
very  demon,  followed  in  an  instant  by  the  whole 
field.  A  few  of  the  flanking  parties  are  nearer  the 
pass  than  he,  and  are  straining  every  nerve  to 
beat  him  there.  His  horse  understands  it  all  as 
perfectly  as  he,  and  seems  as  full  of  the  wild  spirit 
of  the  chase.  His  ears  are  laid  flat,  his  nostrils  are 
wide,  his  eyes  aflame,  as  he  swallows  distance  with 
mighty  leaps  into  which  his  very  life  is  concen 
trated.  But  they  are  closing  in  upon  him.  The 
first  and  second  he  avoids  by  incredible  sidelong 
plunges  which  would  unseat  any  other  rider ;  but 
now  the  iron-gray  is  thundering  along  rib  to  rib 
with  him,  and  its  rider  is  leaning  far  across  the 
other  saddle  to  reach  the  coveted  game.  Whirling 
in  his  seat,  Pedro  is  warding  off  the  assailant  with 
his  left  hand,  while  with  the  clubbed  chicken  in 
his  right  he  rains  down  upon  his  rival's  head  and 
face  and  back  such  resounding  thwacks  that  they 
above  the  cliff  can  hear  them  —  and  all  the  time 
the  myriad  tattoo  of  a  thousand  hoofs  is  roaring 
toward  us.  Hurrah !  He  has  wrested  loose  !  But 
now  two  more  are  upon  him  from  the  left,  and 
another  from  the  right,  snatching,  grappling,  wrest 
ling  as  they  gallop,  with  white  teeth  laughing 
through  blood-splashed  bronze  as  Pedro  swings  his 
strange  weapon-prize  with  an  agility  in  eluding 
their  hands  and  belaboring  their  persons  that 
appears  fairly  superhuman.  Every  bone  and  mus- 


154  THE  GALLO  RACE. 

cle  of  his  athletic  frame  seems  a  sentient  spring, 
which  has  no  need  to  wait  for  word  from  the  brain, 
but  acts  like  lightning  and  always  right,  from 
some  instinct  of  its  own.  Stagnant  blood,  indeed, 
that  will  not  jump  faster  through  tingling  veins  at 
such  a  sight.  It  is  the  most  magnificent  achieve 
ment  of  agile  skill  I  have  ever  seen  —  and  my 
opportunities  have  not  been  limited. 

But  Pedro  is  not  the  only  perfect  athlete  here, 
and  he  is  overmatched  with  numbers.  Now  a  mus 
cular  rival  catches  the  gallo  by  a  flying  leg.  There 
is  a  mad  wrench,  as  each  sways  back  on  his  pur 
chase  ;  the  stringy  sinews  yield,  and  Agostin 
breaks  from  the  struggling  mass  —  for  there  are 
now  a  score  in  the  indiscriminate  jostle  —  and  is 
off  with  a  yell  to  the  right.  Part  of  the  chase 
goes  sweeping  after  him,  growing  in  numbers  with 
each  moment  as  the  farther  riders  catch  up  with 
the  delayed  jam,  and  part  crowd  and  wrestle  in 
the  crowd  about  Pedro.  The  dense  jumble  of  man 
and  horse  sways  to  and  fro  with  its  own  fierce 
efforts.  Handfuls  of  feathers  float  high  on  the 
eddying  air,  and  one  may  fairly  see  the  collective 
steam  arising  from  the  hundreds  of  sweltering 
bodies.  Now  another  leg,  now  a  wing,  now  the 
other  goes,  and  with  each  violent  division  of  the 
dwindling  prize  the  struggling  mob  splits  into  cor 
responding  knots  of  contestants,  or  into  pursuit  of 
the  escaping  victors. 

And  here  comes  Pedro  at  last  from  the  mele'e 


THE  GALLO  RACE.  155 

empty-handed.  His  blanket  is  somewhere,  his 
white  embroidered  shirt  hangs  in  shreds,  and  body 
and  face  and  arms  are  dripping  with  bloody  sweat ; 
but  his  face  is  luminous  with  joy.  He  made  a 
gallant  fight,  and  that  is  enough.  Despite  the 
fever-heat  of  his  blood,  there  is  not  one  bitter  drop 
in  it.  I  have  never  known  a  Pueblo  Indian  to  lose 
his  temper  for  an  instant  in  that  wild  fight.  He 
gives  and  takes  like  a  man,  strains  every  fibre  of 
his  being  to  win,  but  never  thinks  of  harboring  a 
vindictive  thought.  In  that,  as  in  endurance  and 
skill,  he  is  the  model  player.  I  am  sorry  that  I 
cannot  say  as  much  for  the  Mexican  #a?Zo-racers. 
They  seldom  finish  without  bad  blood,  and  fre 
quently  not  without  bloodshed. 

For  as  high,  sometimes,  as  four  hours,  the  race 
goes  on  without  visible  token  of  diminished  ardor. 
Up  and  down  the  broad  plain,  hither  and  yon 
through  the  rock-walled  passes,  up  and  over  steep 
ridges  of  knee-deep  sand,  rider  and  horse,  alike 
unrecognizable  for  foam  and  dust,  keep  their  wild 
career.  The  matchless  endurance  of  these  Indian 
ponies  is  not  more  astounding  than  the  tireless- 
ness  of  their  riders.  By  now  there  are  a  dozen 
different  parties  in  hot  pursuit  of  as  many  bearers 
of  the  torn  remnants  of  the  gallo,  or  struggling 
groups  whose  common  centre  is  the  piecemeal 
prize. 

It  is  not  till  the  ruddy  sun  rests  upon  the  far 
ridge  of  the  Black  Mesa  that  the  weary  band  come 


156  TEE  GALLO  EACE. 

straggling  back  to  the  goal;  and  turning  their 
lathered  horses  over  to  the  herders,  begin  with  the 
homing  spectators  that  long,  breathless  scramble 
up  the  bluff  sand-hill  and  the  dizzy  stone  ladder 
to  their  peaceful  city  in  the  sky,  where  the  heroes 
of  the  day  are  rewarded  with  a  hail  of  cakes  and 
sweets  and  other  gifts,  showered  upon  them  by 
proud  maids  and  matrons  from  a  hundred  level 
housetops. 


ON  THE  PAT-STREAK. 


RODOLFO  was  kneeling  beside  the  door  of  a  little 
on  the  western  slope  of  the  San  Ysidro  Moun 
tains,  pounding  soap.  That  may  seem  a  curious 
occupation,  but  here  in  New  Mexico  nine-tenths  of 
the  people  have  to  pound  their  soap  —  the  fat  root 
of  the  palmilla  (a  sort  of  aloe),  whose  fibrous  sub 
stance  they  crush  to  pulp  for  use  in  tub  or  basin. 
This  curious  natural  soap  is  called  amole,  and  an 
excellent  article  it  is.  The  poor  little  jacal  —  a 
roofed  palisade  of  pinon  trunks,  chinked  and 
covered  with  adobe  mud — looked  as  if  it  were  like 
to  contain  very  little  worthy  of  washing.  But  the 
amole,  and  a  huge  copper  cauldron  simmering  over 
a  fire  of  chips,  indicated  plainly  that  there  was 
something  to  be  scrubbed. 

Just  then  a  brown,  thin-faced  woman  stood  in 
the  low  doorway,  holding  in  her  arms  a  curious, 
brilliant  roll  like  a  blanket.  Strangely  enough, 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  durable  blankets 
in  the  world  are  made,  not  in  civilized  looms,  but 
by  half-savage  Indians,  with  no  better  appliances 
than  a  rude  combination  of  sticks  and  cords  sus 
pended  from  the  branch  of  a  tree.  This  one  was 

157 


158  ON  THE  PAY-STREAK. 

of  the  best  Navajo  make  —  a  blanket  of  crimson 
bolleta,  with  blue  and  white  lightnings  playing 
across  it ;  a  blanket  which  it  required  a  solid 
twelve-month  to  weave,  and  in  which  one  could 
carry  water  as  in  a  bag  of  rubber. 

"  Is  the  amole  ready  ?  "  asked  Maria.  "  Ay  de 
mi  ! l  My  heart  is  heavy  for  the  serape  2  that  Don 
Francisco  gave  to  thy  father.  That  only  we  have 
saved  when  all  was  lost,  and  now  it,  too,  has  to  be 
sold.  Last  year  the  Governor  in  Santa  ¥4  offered 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pesos  3  for  it,  and  now,  when 
it  is  washed,  thou  shalt  take  it  thither  to  see  if  he 
still  will  buy.  Lastima  !  It  is  the  last  we  have 
of  thy  father,  and — Ay  ?  Que  tienes  ?  "  4 

For  Rodolfo  had  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  loud 
cry.  "  Mira,  Nana ! "  5  he  said,  laying  something  in 
her  palm.  It  was  a  wee,  yellow  scale,  not  so  broad 
as  Rodolfo's  little  finger-nail,  nor  quite  so  thick. 
But  how  heavy  it  was !  And  what  a  color  —  that 
exquisite  waxy  lustre  of  the  gold  of  the  New 
Placers. 

"  Oro  grande  !  "6  cried  Maria,  her  big,  tired  eyes 
lighting  up.  "  Where  didst  thou  find  it  ?  " 

"  Pounding  this  last  big  piece  of  amole,  Nana,  I 
found  it  in  an  elbow  of  the  root.  'Sperate,  till  I 
pan  the  dirt;  perhaps  there  is  more." 

In  a  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house  again,  with 
a  big  wooden  bowl.  Carefully  scooping  up  the 

1  Alas  !  8  dollars.  5  Look,  mother  1 

2  blanket.  *  What  hast  thou  ?      6  Coarse  gold. 


ON  THE  PAT-STREAK.  159 


few  handfuls  of  sandy  earth,  fallen  from  the 
of  roots,  he  put  it  in  the  bowl,  and  poured  on 
water  from  an  olla  (earthen  jar)  till  the  bowl  was 
nearly  full.  Grasping  it  by  the  edges,  he  gave  it 
a  slow,  tilting,  rotatory  motion.  Directly  the 
water  began  to  run  round  and  round  in  a  miniature 
whirlpool,  and  the  sand  began  to  follow  its  current 
slowly.  Now  and  then  Rodolfo  stopped  to  run 
his  hands  through  the  sand  and  loosen  it  up,  and 
again  set  it  to  revolving  —  for  he  had  learned  to 
pan  out  gold  as  well  as  any  one  when  he  and  his 
father  used  to  work  side  by  side  in  the  placers  at 
Dolores.  Now  the  poor  old  man  —  never  fully  re 
covered  from  that  last  awful  wound  received  in  a 
fight  with  the  Apaches  —  was  dead,  and  they  were 
very  poor.  There  was  no  more  money  to  be  made 
in  the  placers,  for  it  was  too  expensive  to  haul 
water  for  washing  that  washed-out  gravel  ;  and  the 
beautiful  scrape  must  be  sold,  or  their  poor  little 
home  would  be  taken  from  them. 

When  the  sand  was  thoroughly  wet  up,  Rodolfo 
began  to  give  the  bowl  a  stronger  motion  sidewise, 
till  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  spill  the  whole 
contents.  A  lot  of  water  and  sand  splashed  out 
from  side  to  side,  till  presently  there  was  left  but 
a  handful  in  the  bottom  of  the  bowl.  As  he  kept 
rotating  it  more  slowly  and  gently,  this  drew  out 
in  a  thin  semi-circle  at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  as 
far  from  the  centre  as  it  could  get  —  a  sandy  pro» 
cession  in  which  the  usual  parade  order  of  the  dig- 


160  ON   THE  PAY-STREAK. 

nitaries  was  quite  reversed ;  for  ahead  of  all  was 
the  worthless,  unstable,  reddish  sand ;  at  its  heels 
the  black  iron  dust,  which  always  is  found  in  very 
rich  company,  and  lagging  at  the  rear  of  all  came 
a  few  wee,  yellow  flecks  no  bigger  than  a  pinhead. 

"  Pero !  "  cried  Rodolfo  to  his  mother,  who 
was  kneeling  beside  him,  "  it  is  very  rich !  There 
will  be  cuatro  reales  [fifty  cents]  from  so  little 
dirt!" 

Now  he  was  holding  the  bowl  so  tilted  that  the 
water  had  all  run  slowly  out ;  and  the  "  proces 
sion,"  trying  to  follow  it,  was  headed  down  to  the 
very  edge,  where  some  of  the  foremost  sand  fell 
off.  Dipping  his  hand  in  the  olla,  Rodolfo  dropped 
a  very  little  water  upon  the  sand,  to  accelerate  its 
exit.  Then  he  tipped  the  bowl  back  to  a  level, 
and  poured  in  a  fresh  dipper  of  water.  A  little 
more  gentle  rotating,  and  the  procession  was 
formed  again,  smaller  than  before,  but  in  the  same 
order.  Again  he  ran  off  the  foremost  sand,  and 
so  over  and  over,  working  more  daintily  all  the 
time,  till  not  a  bit  of  sand  was  left,  and  but  little 
of  the  iron  dust.  Only  a  short,  black  patch  of  the 
latter  remained,  guarding  the  precious  yellow  at 
its  back,  from  the  impalpable  golden  "  flour  "  that 
was  nearest,  and  even  mingled  with  it,  back  to  fat 
little  flakes. 

His  mother  had  brought  out  a  small  bottle: 
and,  pushing  out  all  the  black  dust  he  could  with 
a  deft  forefinger,  he  tipped  the  edge  of  the  bowl 


ON  THE  PAT-STREAK.  161 

to  the  bottle's  mouth,  and,  with  a  tiny  stream  from 
his  fingers,  coaxed  the  gold  slowly  into  its  new 
home. 

"  Que  rico  !  "  l  cried  Rodolfo,  holding  the  bottle 
away  from  him  with  a  critical  closing  of  one  eye. 
"  It  is  a  better  prospect  than  ever  I  have  seen  in 
the  New  Placers.  Such'  dirt  ought  to  pay  five 
pesos  the  day,  or  more,  if  one  can  find  the  pay- 
streak.  And  I  know  just  where  I  dug  the  biggest 
palmilla,  for  I  noticed  it  had  so  fat  a  root,  and 
there  I  am  going  this  very  now.  Perchance  thou 
wilt  not  have  to  sell  the  serape,  Nanita.  Only 
wait  me,  till  I  see  if  we  do  not  find  much  gold ! " 

For  six  days  the  old  jacal  saw  very  little  of  Ro 
dolfo.  Exactly  where  he  had  pried  out  the  root 
of  the  big  palmilla  was  now  a  square  hole  nearly 
four  feet  across  and  eighteen  feet  deep.  It  was  on 
the  bank  of  the  little  dry  stream-bed  at  the  bottom 
of  the  big  arroyo.  At  each  side  of  the  shaft  a 
stout  young  pinon  trunk,  with  a  fork  at  the  top, 
was  driven  firmly  into  the  ground;  and  across 
these  two  forks  lay  his  primitive  windlass,  another 
pinon  trunk  with  a  stout  oblique  branch  left  at 
one  end  for  a  crank.  A  strong  rope  was  on  the 
windlass,  and  at  its  lower  end  dangled  a  stout 
rung,  to  be  passed  through  the  handles  of  the  curi 
ous  bucket-gripsack  of  rawhide.  Thus  far  he  had 
worked  alone,  and  very  tiresome  work  it  was,  loos- 

1  How  rich  I 


162  ON  THE  PAY-STREAK. 

erring  with  his  pick  that  jumble  of  gravel  and 
rocks,  which  the  swift  inrb^lence  of  summer  tor 
rents  had  packed  and  repacked  in  the  narrow 
gorge,  and  lifting  it  out  by  the  bucketful.  As  the 
hole  grew  deeper,  he  had  to  swing  down  by  his 
rope,  fill  the  rawhide  sack  with  gravel,  climb  the 
rope  again  hand  over  hand,  and  laboriously  wind 
lass  the  heavy  load  to  the  surface  and  empty  it 
upon  the  dump.  And  now  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft  was  at  bed-rock  —  the  smoothish,  sloping 
blanket  of  porphyry,  coated  with  a  peculiar  gray 
cement,  which  underlies  all  that  great  plateau. 
Soon  he  would  know  if  all  that  digging  and  hoist 
ing  had  been  in  vain.  As  he  started  for  home 
that  evening  his  tattered  coat  pulled  heavy  on 
blistered  hands,  for  in  it  he  was  carrying  a  load  of 
the  very  last  gravel,  which  he  had  carefully 
brushed  up  from  the  bed-rock.  There  was  no 
water  in  the  arroyo,  and  to  pan  his  dirt  he  must 
carry  it  home,  or  bring  water  two  miles  to  the 
shaft. 

"  Ya  se  acab6!"  ("Now  it's  done!")  he  cried 
gayly  to  his  mother,  dropping  the  heavy  load  from 
his  aching  shoulders.  "  And  to-morrow  I  begin  to 
drift  for  the  pay-streak.  But  now  I  will  pan  this 
dirt  before  the  sun  goes  and  see  if  it  be  good." 

Five  times  he  panned  out  the  bowl  half  full  of 
that  shabby-looking  gravel,  and  each  time  the  tiny 
patch  of  wet  gold-dust  which  he  pushed  out  upon 
a  smooth  stone  was  swelled  a  little.  And  in  the 


ON  THE  PAY-STEEAK.  163 

last  pan  was  a  small,  water-worn  lump,  which  came 
very  near  escaping  with  the  first  coarse  pebbles  — 
a  nugget  of  fully  two  dollars,  at  which  the  tired 
mother  wept  for  joy,  while  Rodolfo  danced  about 
her,  crying :  — 

"Ay,  Nana!  Already  there  is  like  four  pesos. 
Very  soon  we  will  be  rich  ones  !  " 

The  sun  was  not  nearly  up  the  farther  side  of 
the  Oroque*  Peaks  on  the  morrow  when  Rodolfo 
and  his  mother  were  trudging  away  toward  the 
arroyo,  driving  ahead  a  patient  burro  borrowed 
from  Cousin  Pablo.  Poor  Flojo  had  a  very  un 
comfortable  load ;  for  two  big  kegs  of  water  were 
balanced  in  opposite  ends  of  a  wool  sack  across 
the  queer  little  pack-saddle,  and  bumped  his  either 
side.  Rodolfo  carried  on  his  head  a  rude  "rocker," 
hastily  made  from  a  box,  and  in  his  hands  a  heavy, 
double-pointed  steel  bar.  His  mother  brought  the 
wooden  bowl,  and  on  her  head  a  large  olla  full  of 
water  was  confidently  poised.  The  time  had  come 
when  both  must  work,  and  little  Chona  would 
have  to  care  for  the  younger  babies  at  home 
through  the  day. 

In  the  earth  near  his  shaft  Rodolfo  had  dug  a 
basin  five  feet  long  and  three  wide,  and  lined  it 
with  tight-packed  clay  so  that  the  precious  water 
might  not  be  wasted.  At  the  upper  end  was 
laid  a  big  flat  slab  of  sandstone  from  the  ledge 
in  the  side  of  the  arroyo;  and  on  this  "founda 
tion  "  he  set  his  rocker.  It  was  merely  a  stout 


164  ON  THE  PAT-STREAK. 

box  with  one  end  knocked  out,  two  rude  wooden 
rockers  like  those  of  an  old-fashioned  wooden  cra 
dle  under  it,  a  strong  handle  nailed  to  one  side, 
and  fitting  into  its  top  a  small  square  box  with  a 
bottom  of  coarse  wire  screen.  Under  this  screen 
was  a  canvas  apron  nailed  to  a  frame  and  sloping 
backward.  The  rocker  itself  pitched  forward, 
and  across  its  sloping  bottom  were  nailed  cleats  a 
few  inches  apart. 

Flojo  was  soon  relieved  and  turned  out  to  graze, 
his  fore-feet  hobbled  with  little  rawhide  handcuffs, 
that  he  might  not  stray  too  far.  The  rocker  was 
set  up  ready  for  work,  and  beside  it  a  keg  of  water, 
with  a  gourd  dipper. 

Dropping  his  heavy  bar  down  the  shaft  —  for 
the  pick  would  be  of  no  use  in  the  close  quarters 
in  which  he  was  now  to  work  —  and  tossing  after 
it  a  tin  basin  which  would  be  handier  than  a 
shovel,  Rodolfo  grasped  the  rope  and  slid  lightly 
down. 

Taking  the  steel  bar  in  both  hands,  he  began  to 
jab  it  against  the  close-packed  gravel  on  the  up 
stream  side  of  the  shaft.  Prying  out  first  the 
bigger  stones  and  then  the  coarse  gravel,  he  soon 
had  started  a  tiny  tunnel  some  three  feet  in  diame 
ter.  As  fast  as  he  filled  the  rawhide  bucket  he 
dragged  it  out  to  the  centre  of  the  shaft  and 
passed  the  cross-stick  on  the  rope  through  the 
raw-hide  handles ;  and  his  mother  —  inured  to 
the  hard  work  of  the  frontier  —  windlassed  it  to 


ON  THE  PAY-STEEAK.  165 

the  surface.  The  rocks  she  threw  away  out  in  the 
stream-bed,  but  the  gravel  was  carefully  emptied 
upon  a  clean,  hard  spot  beside  the  rocker,  where  it 
grew  apace. 

When  it  was  noon  by  the  overhead  suny  Rodolfo 
came  up  on  the  rope,  and  they  ate  their  scant 
dinner  of  tortillas  (cakes  of  unleavened  dough 
cooked  on  a  hot,  flat  stone)  and  water.  There 
was  half  a  yard  of  gravel  beside  the  rocker.1 
Truly  they  had  worked  very  well.  But  were 
they  on  the  pay-streak  ?  That  was  what  Rodolfo 
was  very  anxious  to  know  —  for  the  gold  that 
comes  swirling  down  the  stream  from  the  mother 
veins  in  the  mountains  acts  precisely  as  it  acted  in 
Rodolfo's  wooden  bowl.  It  is  not  distributed  at 
random  throughout  that  vast  volume  of  accom 
panying  rocks  and  sand,  but  trails  along  in  reluc 
tant  file  in  the  line  of  the  strongest  current ;  and 
being  heavier  according  to  its  bulk  than  any  of  its 
companions,  it  keeps  sinking  down  and  down  till 
the  great  sheet  of  bed-rock  will  let  it  sift  no 
deeper.  And  when  the  rains  are  over  and  the 
raging  torrent  becomes  but  a  dry  wash  of  sand 
and  boulders  —  for  there  are  very  few  perennial 
streams  in  the  gold  regions  of  the  Southwest  — 
the  cunning  yellow  fugitives  lie  still  there,  never 
to  change  places  until  some  great  freshet  shall 
scour  the  bed-rock  bare,  or  some  prying  hand  find 

1  Auriferous  gravel  averages  about  a  ton  to  the  cubic  yard, 
and  **  a  yard  of  gravel "  is  a  good  day's  work  for  one  person. 


166  OJV  THE  PAY-STREAK. 

out  their  hiding.  So,  even  if  the  miner  drop 
his  shaft  squarely  upon  the  pay-streak,  he  does 
not  know  which  way  to  follow  it,  but  must  be 
panning  out  sample  gravel  every  little  while,  and 
running  his  drift  to  one  side  or  the  other,  accord 
ing  to  what  the  pan  tells  him. 

Rodolfo  could  scarcely  wait  to  swallow  the  last 
of  his  tough  tortilla.  Washing  it  down  with  a 
hasty  pull  from  the  keg,  he  shovelled  the  screen- 
box  full  of  gravel ;  and  taking  the  upright  handle 
with  both  hands,  began  to  sway  the  heavy  rocker 
from  side  to  side,  while  his  mother  poured  on 
water  from  the  gourd.  The  fine  sand  rapidly 
melted  down  through  the  screen,  and  went  jolting 
down  the  canvas  apron  to  the  back  end  of  the 
rocker,  where  it  fell  to  the  wooden  bottom,  turned, 
and  began  to  wander  forward  to  the  open  front  end. 
When  the  screen  was  washed  clear  of  sand,  Maria 
lifted  it  out,  clawed  over  the  glistening  pebbles  to 
make  sure  that  there  were  no  coarse  nuggets 
among  them,  and  flung  them  out,  filling  the  screen 
with  fresh  gravel  and  wetting  it  down  as  before, 
while  Rodolfo  kept  on  rocking.  Time  and  again 
the  screen  was  emptied  and  refilled;  and  all  the 
while  the  rocking  and  the  pouring  on  of  water 
continued.  The  sloping  bottom  of  the  rocker  was 
full  of  sand  —  at  the  lower  end  an  inch  deep  — 
and  this  sheet  of  sand,  shaken  by  the  motion  and 
coaxed  on  by  the  water,  kept  creeping  over  the  last 
riffle-cleat,  and  falling  into  the  clay-lined  reservoir, 


ON  THE  PAT-STEEAK.  167 

from  which  Maria  was  now  dipping  back  the 
water  instead  of  from  the  nearly  empty  keg. 

The  afternoon  shadows  were  deep  in  the  round 
hollows  of  the  mighty  Sandias  when  Rodolfo  rose 
from  beside  the  rocker,  emptied  the  screen,  and 
straightened  his  stiff  legs. 

"  Now  for  a  clean-up,  Nana ! "  he  said.  She 
poured  in  a  gentle  stream  upon  the  apron  while 
he  rocked;  and,  as  there  was  now  no  new  sand 
rolling  down,  that  on  the  apron  and  on  the  bottom 
of  the  rocker  began  to  work  rapidly  forward,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  there  remained  only  a  little  sand 
caught  in  the  angle  behind  each  riffle.  Rodolfo 
whittled  out  a  smooth,  thin  stick  with  a  square 
end,  and  carefully  scooped  the  wet  sand  into  his 
bowl,  scraping  out  every  grain  from  the  cracks, 
and  proceeded  to  pan  it  out.  But  now  instead  of 
a  few  handfuls  of  random  dirt,  the  bowl  held  -the 
concentrated  richness  of  half  a  ton  of  gravel  from 
bed-rock.  That  was  the  beauty  of  the  rocker ;  it 
would  have  taken  four  times  as  long  to  "  work " 
that  pile  of  gravel  with  the  pan;  the  rocker  did 
the  heavy  work  in  short  order,  and  left  only  the 
finishing  touches  for  the  pan. 

And  now,  when  Rodolfo  had  got  rid  of  most 
of  the  sand,  and  began  to  "  draw "  what  was 
left  at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  there  was  a  sight 
for  four  dark,  glistening  eyes.  As  the  unstable 
sand  drifted  forward  and  forward,  it  uncovered 
more  and  more  of  a  rich,  deliberate  rank  of  yellow, 


168  ON  THE  PAY-STKEAK. 

till  Rodolfo's  trembling  fingers  scarce  could  hold 
up  that  precious  pan  from  spilling,  and  excited 
tears  ran  down  Maria's  thin  cheeks.  When  at  last 
he  had  guided  the  gold  safely  into  the  bottle,  he 
laid  his  face  to  hers  and  said  in  a  voice  which  was 
tremulous  but  strangely  sweet :  — 

"  It  is  well,  Nana !  The  Governor  cannot  have 
the  serape  that  was  my  father's.  And  now  let  us 
go  home." 

The  days  went  on,  and  the  yellow  dust  in  the 
bottle  had  grown  half-way  to  the  top.  Here  and 
there  in  it  were  little,  rounded  nuggets  and  waxy 
flakes,  which  Rodolfo  loved  to  shake  up.  There 
was  a  whole  sack  of  flour  now  in  the  jacal,  and  a 
bushel  of  frijoles.  *  Every  day  Flojo  —  who  had 
been  bought  with  one  fat  nugget  —  "  packed  "  his 
load  of  water  to  the  arroyo ;  and  every  day  Rodolfo 
and  his  mother  worked  on  the  gravel  he  sent  up. 
His  drift  now  ran  thirty  feet  out  from  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft  —  a  narrow,  dark,  crooked  burrow,  at 
whose  farther  end  he  lay  upon  his  side,  and  pecked 
away  with  his  bar  by  a  candle's  stingy  light.  Some 
days  he  lost  the  pay-streak,  and  the  panning-out  at 
evening  was  very  light ;  but  soon  he  found  it  again, 
and  all  was  well.  And  every  day  the  bottle  grew 
heavier  and  brighter,  till  it  was  like  a  bar  of  lead 
to  lift. 

One  morning  as  Rodolfo  was   working  in  his 

1  Mexican  beans. 


ON   THE  PAT-STREAK.  169 

drift  there  came  a  sudden  dull,  low  rumble,  and 
loosened  pebbles  fell  upon  him.  Filled  with  a 
nameless  dread,  he  crawled  out  toward  the  shaft, 
but  no  faint  ray  of  daylight  came  to  meet  him  at 
the  corner.  The  great  boulder  under  which  he 
had  dug  five  feet  from  the  entrance  of  the  drift, 
had  fallen  in !  He  had  undermined  it  more  than 
one  should  in  following  the  pay-streak  under  it. 
And  now  it  had  crushed  out  its  gravel  supports, 
and  had  fallen  and  closed  his  burrow.  He  was 
buried  alive !  With  trembling  fingers  he  felt 
across  its  cold,  smooth  surface.  Another  boulder 
had  followed  it  from  above  and  filled  its  place  so 
that  he  could  not  dig  out  above  it  —  and  to  try 
would  cause  a  cave-in  that  would  crush  him. 

Thought  chased  thought  in  strange  procession 
through  his  brain.  Buried  alive  under  eighteen 
feet  of  earth  and  stone  —  his  mother  so  near 
as  that,  but  never  to  see  him  again  —  his  poor 
mother !  And  just  as  they  were  getting  the  dear 
gold  that  would  make  them  all  so  happy  ! 

But  in  the  veins  of  this  slender,  dark-faced  boy 
ran  blood  of  that  old  blue  of  Spain  that  conquered 
and  opened  this  New  World  to  the  Old.  He 
would  not  die  like  a  coward ;  he  would  try ! 

He  crawled  back  and  got  his  bar  and  candle, 
and  brought  them  to  the  boulder  door  of  his  prison 
and  began  to  try  the  surrounding  earth  with 
cautious  punchings.  But  the  fall  of  the  great  rock 
had  so  loosened  all  the  soil  that  it  was  sure  to  cave 


170  ON  THE  PAT-STREAK. 

as  soon  as  he  should  attempt  to  dig  through  it. 
In  his  desperation  he  even  tried  if  he  could  not  pry 
the  great  rock  forward,  and  in  time  clear  out  into 
the  shaft;  but  a  dozen  men  could  scarce  have 
budged  that  ton  of  porphyry- 
Still  he  thrust  his  steel  lever  into  the  earth  at 
either  side  and  shoved  on  the  boulder;  and 
suddenly  the  bar  "  gave  "  downward,  as  if  he  had 
driven  it  a  foot  into  the  solid  bed-rock.  Startled 
and  mystified,  he  began  to  probe  the  yielding  spot, 
and  in  a  moment  gave  a  great  cry  of  newborn 
hope.  How  strange  the  chance  upon  which  a  life 
may  hang !  In  all  the  thirty  feet  of  bed-rock  he 
had  cleaned  up,  there  was  not  a  hollow ;  but  right 
here,  its  edge  an  inch  from  where  he  had  dug,  was  a 
pocket  of  unknown  size.  Some  boulder,  caught  in 
the  eddies  of  forgotten  centuries,  had  rolled  round 
and  round  in  this  one  spot  till  it  ground  for  itself 
a  basin  in  the  stubborn  bed-rock.  The  grinding 
rock  was  there  now  —  he  could  feel  with  his  bar 
its  rounded  side  amid  the  fine  sand  with  which  the 
hole  had  filled  before  the  stream  built  that  torrent- 
pile  above  and  lifted  its  own  bed  by  nearly  twenty 
feet.  The  pot-hole  lay  partly  under  one  end  of 
the  fallen  boulder,  so  that  he  could  dig  in  it 
without  danger  of  a  serious  cave-in.  If  it  was 
deep  enough  and  wide  enough! 

He  drove  the  bar  fiercely  into  the  hard  gravel, 
he  pried  away  the  stones  and  scooped  out  the  sand 
with  fingers  that  bled  to  their  ungentle  touch.  In 


ON  THE  PAY-STREAK.  171 

a  moment  he  had  cleared  a  place  large  enough  to 
let  him  at  the  buried  pot-hole.  Laying  aside  the 
heavy  bar,  he  began  to  claw  out  the  sand  with 
frantic  hands  and  throw  it  back  between  his  legs, 
like  a  rabbit  burrowing.  Now  and  then  a  loosened 
stone  from  the  roof  gave  him  a  cruel  pelt  on  head 
or  back;  but  he  hardly  noticed  it.  The  candle 
was  burning  very  faintly  now,  and  his  breath 
grew  short  and  thick.  The  scant  air  of  his  prison 
was  fast  becoming  a  deadly  poison.  Even  if  the 
pot-hole  were  big  enough,  could  he  keep  breath  to 
burrow  through?  He  was  down  in  the  pot-hole 
now,  right  under  the  fallen  boulder.  The  round 
stone  which  had  worn  that  blessed  pit  was  too 
heavy  to  be  lifted  out,  but  he  had  half  a  yard 
between  it  and  the  boulder  above,  and  that  was 
room  enough. 

At  last  his  hand  burrowing  forward,  came  to  a 
polished  concave  surface.  It  was  the  farther  side 
of  the  pot-hole  !  He  scooped  away  the  sand  with 
feverish  energy,  until  he  could  feel  all  along  that 
strange  bowl-like  wall ;  and  in  an  agony  of  doubt 
lifted  his  hands  to  see  what  was  above.  They 
touched  something  hard  and  smooth  and  convex, 
and  he  shrieked  aloud.  It  was  the  great  boulder 
—  it  covered  the  farther  side  of  the  great  pot-hole, 
and  he  would  never  get  out !  But  no !  It  is  a 
smaller  rock  —  and  there  is  another  wedged  beside 
it,  and  another !  The  pot-hole  opens  out  beyond 
the  prison  boulder ! 


172  ON  THE  PAT-STREAK. 

He  crawled  back  for  his  bar,  but  it  was  too  long 
to  be  turned  up  in  that  passage  under  the  great 
rock.  His  strength  was  almost  gone.  His  head 
swam,  and  a  strange  whir  was  in  his  ears.  To 
die  after  all,  with  dear  life  so  near !  He  caught 
up  a  smooth  stone  that  had  fallen  in  the  drift,  and 
lying  upon  his  back  in  the  pot-hole  began  to  ham 
mer  desperately  overhead,  cracking  off  rocky  splin 
ters  that  filled  his  eyes,  crushing  his  fingers  blindly, 
working  stupidly  as  one  half  asleep. 

And  then  a  round  stone  as  big  as  his  head  fell 
and  barely  missed  his  face,  and  that  let  loose  an 
other,  and  there  came  a  shower  of  sand,  and  that 
sweetest  thing  in  all  the  world,  the  fresh  air  of 
heaven  —  and  Rodolf o  knew  no  more. 

"Pero!  What  keeps  Rodolfo  so  long?"  mut 
tered  Maria  anxiously,  "  for  I  was  at  home  much 
time,  and  not  yet  has  he  filled  the  bucket  to  send 
up.  Rodolfo !  Little  son  ! "  And  she  leaned 
over  the  shaft,  calling  shrilly  again  and  again. 

"May  the  Holiest  Mother  help  me,"  she  mur 
mured,  catching  the  rope  and  shivering,  "  for  it  is 
very  deep.  But  I  must  see  what  has  come  to  my 
boy."  And  sliding  down  the  harsh  rope,  with 
burned  and  failing  fingers,  she  fell  in  a  heap  to 
the  bottom. 

When  Rodolfo  opened  his  eyes  the  little  hole 
above  his  face  had  grown  larger,  and  slender, 
bleeding  fingers  were  tearing  at  its  rough  sides. 
Faintly  at  first,  but  with  growing  strength,  he 


ON   THE  PAY-STREAK.  173 

hammered  with  his  stone  from  within,  until  at 
last  he  squeezed  through  the  narrow  opening  and 
crawled  with  his  fainting  mother  to  daylight  at 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  boy  was  strong 
enough  to  climb  the  rope  and  windlass  his  mother 
up,  and  for  many  days  both  lay  helpless  and  fevered 
in  the  little  jacal,  cared  for  by  kindly  neighbors 
from  Dolores. 

But  both  got  well  at  last,  and  Rodolfo  went 
back  to  work  in  his  placer  claim,  which  quite 
filled  the  bottle,  and  many  others  like  it  in  course 
of  time.  But  that  blessed  pot-hole  which  had 
saved  his  life  was  what  really  made  him  a  rich 
man  for  that  poor  country.  It  had  been  a  lively 
miser  in  its  day,  and  when  he  cleaned  it  out,  well 
knowing  that  such  a  pit  in  the  very  path  of  the 
pay-streak  was  the  best  of  all  traps  to  catch  the 
vagrant  gold,  he  washed  out  in  one  day  from 
the  gravel  in  its  bowl-like  bottom  so  many  hun 
dreds  of  dollars'  worth  of  yellow  dust  and  fat  nug 
gets,  that  he  never  dared  tell  how  much  there  was, 
and  I  doubt  if  any  one  knows  to  this  day. 


THE  MIEACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE. 


I  HOPE  some  day  to  see  a  real  history  of  the 
United  States ;  a  history  not  written  in  a  closet, 
from  other  one-sided  affairs,  but  based  on  a  knowl 
edge  of  the  breadth  of  our  history,  and  a  disposi 
tion  to  do  it  justice ;  a  book  which  will  realize  that 
the  early  history  of  this  wonderful  country  is  not 
limited  to  a  narrow  strip  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard, 
but  that  it  began  in  the  great  Southwest ;  and  that 
before  the  oldest  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  had  been 
born  swarthy  Spanish  heroes  were  colonizing  what 
is  now  the  United  States ;  in  their  little  corner  of 
which  they  suffered  for  three  hundred  and  fifty 
years  such  awful  dangers  and  hardships  as  our 
Saxon  forefathers  did  not  dream  of.  I  hope  to  see 
such  a  history,  which  will  do  justice  to  perhaps  the 
most  wonderful  pioneers  the  world  has  ever  pro 
duced;  but  it  has  not  come  yet.  Why,  there  is 
not  even  one  history  which  gives  the  correct  date 
of  the  founding  of  Santa  Fe*?  which  was  a  Spanish 
city  more  than  a  decade  before  the  landing  at  Ply 
mouth  Rock ! 

When  that  ideal  history  is  written  you  will  find 
thrilling  matter  in  the  story  of  New  Mexico  for 
174 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE.  175 

more  than  three  centuries,  and  particularly  in  the 
bloody  years  from  1680  to  1700.  The  Pueblo 
Indians  —  those  gentle,  industrious  house-dwellers 
who  remain  with  us  to  this  day,  the  most  wonder 
ful  aboriginal  race  on  earth  —  had  received  the 
white  strangers  hospitably,  had  been  their  friends 
against  the  savage  tribes,  and  patiently  had  shoul 
dered  their  intrusions  for  a  century  and  a  half. 
But  in  1680  they  rose  in  red  rebellion,  and  swept 
the  mailed  invaders  away  before  them.  Ah,  what 
years  those  were ;  of  whose  lightning  flashes  of 
revolt,  followed  by  sullen  peace,  and  then  another 
thunderclap,  the  great  outside  world  has  never 
half  known ;  of  whose  most  hideous  tragedies,  of 
whose  sublimest  heroisms,  we  have  record  only  in 
here  and  there  a  bare,  unbraggart  line,  scant  as 
the  rude  cross  which  marks  the  last  of  a  great 
life! 

After  the  long  and  wonderful  war  —  wonderful 
not  for  numbers  of  men  and  oceans  of  spilt  blood, 
but  for  the  achievements  of  a  tiny  army  —  in 
which  Don  Diego  de  Vargas  Zapata  Luzan  recon 
quered  the  awful  wilderness  of  New  Mexico,  the 
hardy  Spanish  settlers  enjoyed  nearly  two  years  of 
peace.  Their  quaint  little  colony  at  Santa  Fe*, 
with  its  ironclad  soldiers  clanking  through  the 
warped  streets,  was  beginning  to  feel  secure.  So 
were  the  heroic  priests  who  had  taken  their  lives 
in  their  hands  and  settled  themselves  alone  in  the 
Pueblo  towns  to  convert  the  suspicious  natives  to 


176  THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE. 

Christianity.  But  in  1696  fresh  calamities  arose. 
Fray  Antonio  Farfan  had  brought  seven  hundred 
fanegas  (about  seventy  thousand  pounds)  of  corn 
for  the  support  of  the  garrison  and  the  people ;  but 
it  was  misappropriated,  and  trouble  ensued.  In 
the  summer  of  1695  there  had  been  an  accident  in 
the  great  pueblo  of  Pecos.  Fray  Diego  Zeinos, 
while  handling  a  gun,  had  the  misfortune  to  kill 
an  Indian.  He  was  in  no  wise  to  blame,  and  the 
Indians  themselves  petitioned  that  he  be  not  pun 
ished.  But  the  Spanish  authorities  did  punish 
him ;  and  a  great  deal  of  bad  feeling  was  thereby 
stirred  up  among  the  Indians. 

But  the  chief  source  of  trouble  came  from  the 
founding  of  the  Spanish  settlement  of  Santa  Cruz 
de  la  Canada  (where  the  pueblo  of  Santa  Cruz 
still  stands),  in  May,  1695.  The  Tanos  Pueblos, 
who  harassed  the  Spanish  settlers  in  the  matter 
of  their  lands,  were  the  real  instigators  of  the 
outbreak,  which  was,  at  best,  one  of  the  most 
cruel,  needless,  and  unexcused  revolts  ever  known. 
Fourteen  Pueblo  towns  joined  in  a  rebellion  which 
broke  June  4,  1696.  It  was  a  dreadful  day. 
Brave  Fray  Francisco  de  Jesus  Maria,  who  had 
gone  far  back  into  the  inhospitable  mountains  to 
carry  the  Gospel  to  the  Indians  of  Jemez,  was 
clubbed  to  death  by  his  flock.  At  San  Cristobal, 
near  Santa  Cruz,  the  people  slew  their  gentle  mis 
sionary,  Fray  Jose*  de  Arvisu,  and  in  pretty  San 
Ildef onso  the  Pueblos  fired  the  little  convent  which 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE.  177 

had  been  erected,  and  the  three  priests,  Fray 
Francisco  Corbera,  Fray  Antonio  Carboneli,  and 
Fray  Antonio  Moreno,  perished  in  the  fire. 
Besides  these  five  priests,  thirty-four  other  Span 
iards  were  slain  on  that  bitter  day. 

So  much  is  real  history.  Now  for  an  interest 
ing  story  of  that  red  4th  of  June  which  does  not 
appear  in  any  history,  nor  in  any  ancient  record, 
but  is  sacredly  preserved  and  devoutly  believed  by 
the  Indians  of  San  Felipe  —  a  legend  which  they 
have  handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years.  San  Felipe  is  a  pretty  little 
pueblo  forty  odd  miles  south  of  Santa  Fe*.  In 
front  the  hurrying  current  of  the  Rio  Grande  — 
"  the  fierce  river  of  the  North  "  —  washes  it ; 
behind,  it  is  crowded  by  the  gloomy  volcanic  walls 
of  the  Black  Mesa.  Up  and  down  the  river  stretch 
broad  fields  of  corn  and  wheat  and  rustling 
orchards,  to  quench  whose  summer  thirst  roily 
little  acequias  come  singing  as  they  run.  Atop 
the  frowning  tableland  the  gray  ruins  of  the 
ancient  stone  church  look  wistfully  down  upon  the 
pretty  scene,  and  upon  its  adobe  successor,  radiant 
with  whitewash,  and  consequential  with  balcon  and 
quaint  belfries. 

The  most  interesting  man  in  San  Felipe  is  Teo- 
dosio  Duran,  the  old  ex-governor  —  for  each  Pueblo 
town  is  a  republic  by  itself,  electing  its  governor, 
sheriff,  councillors,  and  other  officers  by  ballot 
annually.  Teodosio  is  about  sixty-four  years  old, 


178  THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE. 

I  should  say  —  he  does  not  know  —  dark,  short, 
thin,  and  an  epitome  of  wrinkles  and  legends. 
And  this  is  the  story  of  the  miracle  of  San  Felipe, 
as  he  tells  it  in  excellent  Spanish :  — 

"  At  the  first  conquest  the  Spanish  brought  with 
them  many  padres  (priests),  who  went  out  to  all 
the  pueblos.  Many  died  and  many  were  killed, 
and  at  last  came  the  great  rebellion  [1680].  When 
the  Spanish  made  the  second  conquest  they  found 
but  two  priests  left.  One  of  these  went  very  far 
away,  —  quiza  to  Moqui,  —  but  the  other  made  a 
church  in  Cochiti  and  stayed  there.  [The  truth 
is,  they  found  no  survivors,  though  there  is  an  uncon 
firmed  Spanish  story  that  one  priest  was  left  alive 
at  Moqui.]  The  Indians  of  the  Northern  pueblos 
were  very  much  enemies  of  the  Spanish,  and  most 
of  all  the  people  of  Cochiti,  San  Ildefonso,  and 
Santo  Domingo  were  angry  with  them.  In  a  little 
while  the  principales  of  those  pueblos  held  a  junta 
in  Cochiti,  and  made  it  up  to  kill  the  padre  and 
drive  out  the  Spanish.  The  sacristan  of  Cochiti 
was  a  good  Christian,  and  when  he  heard  this  he 
went  running  by  night  to  the  convent  and  told  the 
padre :  '  Padre,  I  am  your  friend.  They  are  mak 
ing  to  kill  you,  but  I  will  save  you  if  I  can.  But 
you  must  go  immediately.  I  will  go  with  you  as 
far  as  I  can  and  get  home  before  day,  for  they  will 
kill  me  if  they  know.' 

"  So  the  sacristan  carried  the  padre  across  the 
river  on  his  back,  and  then  they  took  the  camino 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE.  179 

real  (highway)  past  Santo  Domingo,  and  where 
Algodones  now  is.  Here  the  sacristan  said:  4I 
go  no  further.  This  is  the  road,  and  you  must 
save  yourself.'  It  was  already  near  day,  and  the 
padre  saw  he  must  hide.  There  was  a  little  island 
on  the  river  with  cottonwoods  very  thick  on  it,  and 
he  went  to  hide  there  until  another  night. 

"  Now,  by  the  grace  of  God,  on  that  very  day 
the  pueblo  of  San  Felipe  was  to  make  a  great  hunt ; 
and  already  before  the  sun  had  come  the  sentinels 
were  going  to  all  the  high  places  to  watch  for 
game,  and  one  was  on  the  top  of  the  mesa  just 
below  that  island.  When  it  grew  more  day,  he 
saw  something  black  moving  among  the  cotton- 
woods,  and  thought,  4  Good  luck !  For  already  I 
see  a  bear ! '  but  in  truth  it  was  the  padre  getting 
a  drink.  The  sentinel  made  his  hunt  signal,  and 
in  a  very  little  all  the  hunters  were  around  the 
island.  When  they  found  it  was  no  bear,  but  the 
padre  from  Cochiti,  they  were  astonished,  but  he 
told  them  all  that  had  happened.  Then  at  once 
the  principales  held  council  on  the  island;  and 
when  all  had  spoken,  they  said,  '  We  will  save  him 
and  take  him  to  our  pueblo.'  Then  they  took  off 
his  black  robes  and  put  upon  him  the  shirt  and 
calzoncillos  and  moccasins  of  one  of  the  Indians, 
and  painted  his  face  and  hands.  But  when  they 
were  coming  to  the  town  they  met  many  of  the 
Cochitenos  hunting  for  him  and  asking,  'Have 
you  met  the  priest?'  They  said  'No,  we  have 


180  THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE. 

not  met  him';  but  even  then  one  of  the  Cochi- 
tenos  recognized  him  in  his  paint,  and  they  de 
manded  him  with  injurious  words.  Refusing, 
there  was  a  great  fight,  which  lasted  even  to  the 
pueblo,  but  they  of  San  Felipe  came  safely  inside 
with  the  padre.  Then  the  Cochiterios  went  away 
for  help,  and  next  day  came  again  with  many  more 
of  their  own  pueblo  and  of  Santo  Domingo,  sur 
rounding  the  town  and  wounding  some.  So,  as 
the  enemy  were  many,  the  people  of  San  Felipe 
retreated  to  the  top  of  the  mesa,  and  made  a  fort 
there.  The  others  besieged  them  for  many  days, 
and  soon  the  water  and  the  food  which  they  had 
carried  up  with  them  began  to  be  very  little  ;  and 
then  the  water  was  all  gone.  And  when  they 
knew  no  more  how  to  live  without  water,  the  old 
men  made  a  junta  and  brought  the  padre  to  it. 
When  he  had  heard  all,  he  hunted  for  paper ;  and 
at  last  he  found  a  very  little  piece  in  his  wallet. 
Upon  this  he  made  a  writing  with  charcoal,  and 
told  the  sacristan  to  put  the  paper  in  a  certain 
spot,  with  the  writing  upward,  and  stones  on  it 
that  it  might  not  blow  away.  Then  he  made 
prayer  for  three  days,  night  and  day;  and  after 
ward  sent  the  sacristan  to  bring  the  paper  again. 
And  in  truth  there  was  now  also  a  writing  on  the 
other  side.  Who  wrote  it  ?  Quien  sabe  ?  But  we 
think  the  saints.  When  he  had  read  the  new 
writing,  he  told  the  sacristan  to  bring  him  a  piece 
of  topaz  (volcanic  glass),  and  this  he  broke  upon 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE.  181 

a  rock  till  it  was  sharp  like  a  knife.  And  when 
the  people  had  brought  all  their  tinajas  and  gourds, 
he  made  his  arm  bare  and  cut  it  with  the  stone 
knife,  and  held  it  stretched  out;  and  from  the 
wound  ran  streams  of  water,  the  same  as  a  clear 
river,  and  filled  all  the  vessels.  When  all  were 
full  it  ceased  to  run ;  and  all  the  people  fell  down 
and  gave  thanks  to  God.  A  great  while  the 
enemy  remained,  but  always  when  the  water  jars 
were  empty,  the  padre  filled  them  again  with  pure 
water  from  his  arm,  till  at  last  the  Cochitenos  were 
tired  and  went  away.  Then  the  people  came  down 
again  to  the  pueblo,  taking  the  padre  in  great 
honor,  and  they  were  in  peace,  for  after  that  there 
was  no  more  war.  But  to  this  day  we  make  a 
sacred  fiesta  for  the  Day  of  the  Padre ;  and  God 
has  been  very  good  to  us  for  that,  more  than  to 
any  of  the  pueblos  that  killed  their  priests.  No, 
we  do  not  know  his  name.  It  is  very  long  ago, 
and  that  has  been  lost." 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  Teodosio's  story, 
and  my  search  to  discover  how  much  of  it  is  true, 
aside  from  the  palpable  superstition  of  the  miracle, 
has  not  been  entirely  vain.  The  name  of  the  good 
priest  was  Fray  Alonzo  Ximenes  de  Cisneros. 
Some  interesting  letters  written  by  him  are  still  in 
existence.  He  was  stationed  at  Cochiti,  and  did 
escape  thence  by  the  help  of  the  sacristan,  on  the 
eve  of  the  uprising.  The  people  of  San  Felipe 
did  receive  him  and  protect  him  with  a  self-sacri- 


182  THE  MIRACLE  OF  SAN  FELIPE. 

ficing  loyalty  really  remarkable  when  we  consider 
their  surroundings  and  the  risks  they  took.  So 
far  as  the  account  of  the  siege  goes,  there  is  no 
historical  evidence  to  corroborate  it.  There  were 
some  skirmishes  over  the  matter,  but  nothing  more 
serious  so  far  as  we  can  learn  from  authentic 
sources.  But  of  this  at  least  we  may  be  sure  : 
That  the  kindly  Pueblos  of  San  Felipe  saved  Fray 
Cisneros  from  a  fearful  death,  with  great  danger 
to  themselves,  and  that  they  devoutly  and  rever 
ently  celebrate  still  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on 
which,  according  to  their  legend,  he  saved  San 
Felipe. 


A  NEW   OLD   GAME. 


THE  game  of  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you  was 
played  by  thousands  of  young  Americans  for  un 
known  centuries  before  Columbus  opened  the  doors 
of  the  New  World  to  us  who  usurp  exclusive  right 
to  the  title  of  Americans;  and  it  is  played  by 
thousands  of  them  still.  Yet  of  all  who  will  read 
these  pages,  I  am  sure  there  will  not  be  a  half  a 
dozen  who  ever  played  the  game,  and  perhaps  not 
a  single  one ;  and  very  few  who  ever  even  saw  it. 
It  certainly  was  never  played  in  any  parlor  in  the 
world ;  and  yet  it  can  very  easily  be  made  an  in 
door  game,  as  you  shall  see.  It  is  a  common 
heritage  of  all  the  Indian  tribes  of  the  great 
Southwest,  though  its  name  varies  with  the  tribe. 
The  Teewah  branch  of  the  Pueblo  Indians — with 
whom  I  live  —  call  it  pa-tol.1  Boys  and  gray- 
haired  men  play  it  with  equal  zest ;  and  of  a  sum 
mer's  evening,  when  work  in  the  fields  is  done,  I 
seldom  stroll  through  the  village  without  finding 
knots  of  old  and  young  squatted  in  convenient 
corners  at  the  most  popular  of  all  their  sedentary 
games. 

1  Accent  on  the  last  syllable. 

183 


184  A  NEW  OLD  GAME. 

There  is  nothing  complicated  about  the  prepara 
tion  of  a  pa-tol  set.  The  boys  gather  forty  smooth 
stones  the  size  of  their  fist,  and  arrange  them  in 
a  circle  about  three  feet  in  diameter.  Between 
every  tenth  and  eleventh  stone  is  a  gate  of  four 
or  five  inches.  These  gates  are  called  p'dy-hlah  — 
"  rivers."  In  the  centre  of  the  circle  {pa-t6l  ndht- 
heh,  "  pa-tol  house  "  )  is  placed  a  larger  cobble- 


*••.    GATE.   X* 
•••     •••* 


THE  PA-TOL  HOUSE. 


stone,  smooth  and  approximately  flat  on  top,  called 
hyee-o"h-tee-dy.     There  is  your  pa-tol  ground. 

The  pa-tol  sticks,  which  are  the  most  important 
part  of  the  paraphernalia,  are  three  in  number. 
Sometimes  they  are  made  by  splitting  from  dry 
branches,  and  sometimes  by  whittling  from  a  solid 
block.  The  chief  essential  is  that  the  wood  be 
firm  and  hard.  These  sticks  are  four  to  five 


A  NEW  OLD  GAME.  185 

inches  long,  about  an  inch  wide,  and  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  thick ;  and  must  have  their  sides  flat,  so 
that  the  three  may  be  clasped  together  very  much 
as  one  holds  a  pen,  but  more  nearly  perpendicular, 
with  the  thumb  and  first  three  fingers  of  the  right 
hand.  Each  stick  is  plain  on  one  side  and  marked 
on  the  other,  generally  with  diagonal  notches,  as 
shown  in  the  illustration. 

The  only  other  requisite  is  a  Jcah-nid-deh  (horse) 
for  each  player,  of  whom  there  may  be  as  many 
as  can  seat  themselves  around  the  pa-tol  house. 
The  "  horse  "  is  merely  a  twig  or  stick,  used  as 
a  marker. 

When  the  players  have  seated  themselves,  the 
first  takes  the  pa-tol  sticks  tightly  in  his  right 
hand,  lifts  them  about  as  high  as  his  chin,  and, 
bringing  them  down  with  a  smart,  vertical  thrust, 
as  if  to  harpoon  the  centre  stone,  lets  go  of  them 
when  they  are  within  some  six  inches  of  it.  The 
three  sticks  strike  the  stone  as  one,  hitting  on 
their  ends  squarely,  and  rebounding  several  inches, 
fall  back  into  the  circle.  The  manner  in  which 
they  fall  decides  the  "  denomination  "  of  the  throw, 
and  the  different  values  are  shown  in  diagram 
No.  2.  Although  at  first  flush  this  might  seem  to 
make  it  a  game  of  chance,  nothing  could  be  farther 
from  the  truth.  Indeed,  no  really  aboriginal  game 
is  a  true  game  of  chance  —  the  invention  of  that 
dangerous  and  delusive  plaything  was  reserved  for 
civilized  ingenuity.  An  expert  pa-tol  player  will 


186 


A  NEW  OLD  GAME. 


throw  the  number  he  desires  with  almost  unfail 
ing  certainty  by  his  arrangement  of  the  sticks  in 
his  hand  and  the  manner  and 

DIV/I  force  with  which  he  strikes 
fJM  them  down.  It  is  a  dexterity 
|/^  which  any  one  may  acquire 
by  sufficient  practice  and 
only  thus.  The  five-throw  is 
deemed  very  much  the  hard 
est  of  all,  and  I  have  cer 
tainly  found  it  so.  It  is  to 
this  opportunity  for  skill  in 
throwing  that  the  interest  of 
the  game  and  its  value  are 
due. 

According  to  the  number  of 
his  throw  the  player  moves  his 
marker  an  equal  number  of 
stones  ahead  on  the  circle, 
using  one  of  the  "  rivers  "  as 
a  starting-point.  If  the  throw 
is  five,  for  instance,  he  lays  his 
"  horse  "  between  the  fourth 
and  fifth  stones,  and  hands 
the  pa-tol  sticks  to  the  next 
man.  If  his  throw  be  ten, 
however  —  as  the  first  man's 
first  throw  is  very  certain  to  be  —  it  lands  his 
"  horse  "  in  the  second  "  river,"  and  he  has  another 
throw. 


THE  VALUE  OF  THROWS  IN 
THE  ORDINARY  GAME. 


A  NEW  OLD  GAME.  187 

The  second  man  may  make  his  starting-point 
the  same  or  another  "  river,"  and  may  elect  to  run 
his  "horse"  around  the  circle  in  the  same  direc 
tion  that  the  first  is  going,  or  in  the  opposite.  If 
in  the  same  direction,  he  will  do  his  best  to  make 
a  throw  which  will  bring  his  "horse  "  into  the  same 
notch  as  that  of  the  first  man  —  in  which  case  the 
first  man  is  "  killed,"  and  has  to  take  his  "  horse  " 
back  to  his  starting-point  to  try  over  again  when 
he  gets  another  turn.  In  case  the  second  man 
starts  in  the  opposite  direction  —  which  he  will 
not  do  unless  an  expert  player  —  he  has  to  calcu 
late  with  a  good  deal  of  skill  for  the  meeting,  to 
"kill,"  and  to  avoid  being  "killed"  by  No.  1. 
When  he  starts  in  the  same  direction  as  No.  1,  he 
is  behind  and  runs  no  chance  of  being  "killed," 
while  he  has  just  as  good  a  chance  to  kill.  But 
if,  even  then,  a  high  throw  carries  him  ahead  of 
the  first  man  —  for  "  jumping  "  does  not  count 
either  way,  the  only  "killing"  being  when  two 
"horses"  come  in  the  same  notch  —  his  rear  is  in 
danger,  and  he  will  try  to  run  on  out  of  the  way 
of  his  pursuer  as  fast  as  possible. 

The  more  players,  the  more  complicated  the 
game,  for  each  "  horse  "  is  threatened  alike  by  foes 
that  chase  from  behind  and  charge  from  before, 
and  the  most  skilful  player  is  liable  to  be  sent 
back  to  the  starting-point  several  times  before  the 
game  is  finished,  which  is  as  soon  as  one  "  horse  " 
has  made  the  complete  circuit. 


188 


A  NEW  OLD  GAME. 


Sometimes  the  players  —  when  very  young  or 
unskilled  —  agree  that  there  shall  be  no  "  killing," 
but  unless  there  is  an  explicit  arrangement  to  that 
effect,  "  killing  "  is  understood,  and  it  adds  greatly 
to  the  interest  of  the  game. 

There  is  also  another  variation  of  the  game  —  a 
rare  one,  however.  In  case  the  players  agree  to 


When  the  three  sticks  fall 
thus,  the  throw— 2. 


When  the  three  sticks  fall 
thus,  the  throw— 3. 


When  the  three  sticks  fall 
thus,  the  throw— 5. 


When  the  sticks  five  fall 
thus,  the  throw— 10. 


VALUE  OF  THE  THROWS  IN  THE  15-GAME. 

throw  fifteens,  all  the  pa-tol  sticks  are  made  the 
same,  except  that  one  has  an  extra  notch  to  distin 
guish  it  from  the  others.  Then  the  throws  are  as 
shown  in  diagram  3.  The  ten-game,  however, 


A  NEW  OLD  GAME.  189 

seems   to   me   the   more   satisfactory,  and  so  the 
Indians  themselves  regard  it. 

The  adaptation  of  pa-tol  for  a  parlor  game  is 
very  simple  indeed.  The  circle  or  pa-tol  house 
may  be  made  by  painting  on  a  board,  or  table,  or 
table  cover,  an  eighteen  or  twenty-four  inch  circle, 
with  the  four  equi-distant  gates  and  forty  marks 
of  any  sort  for  the  stones.  The  centre  stone 
should  be  a  real  stone,  however,  as  nothing  else 
gives  so  good  a  rebound.  It  need  be  neither  large 
nor  heavy,  so  it  is  smooth  and  rather  flat.  It  may 
be  an  ornamental  block  of  marble,  or  a  pretty, 
water-worn  stone  the  size  and  shape  of  a  Boston 
cracker.  The  markers  and  pa-tol  sticks  may  be  as 
elaborate  and  ornamental  as  desired.  Pa-tol  is  an 
interesting  game,  and  in  these  days  when  our  old 
games  are  somewhat  threadbare,  and  good  new 
ones  are  not  too  common,  we  may  be  glad  to  learn 
this  new  old  one  from  the  curious  people  who  in 
vented  it  before  the  European  half  of  the  world 
dreamed  of  the  existence  of  the  American  half. 


A  NEW  MEXICAN   HERO. 


WHEN  I  look  back  over  the  strange  career  of 
my  brave  old  Spanish  friend,  Colonel  Manuel 
Chaves,  whose  weary  remnant  of  a  body  was  laid 
to  rest  under  the  shadow  of  the  noblest  mountain 
in  western  New  Mexico,  two  years  ago,  the  exploits 
of  many  heroes  who  were  handier  to  the  Fame- 
maker  seem  a  trifle  tame.  Known  and  loved  by 
all  long  residents  of  the  bare,  brown  Territory 
whose  foremost  defender  he  was,  yet  his  name 
seldom  reached  the  great  outside  world  where  there 
were  newspapers  and  historians  ;  and  to-day  he  fills 
the  grave  of  an  almost  unrecorded  hero.  Yet  I 
suppose  there  was  never  a  more  remarkable  life. 
Far  out  here,  in  the  then  un- Americanized  South 
west,  he  was  for  over  fifty  years  warring  against 
the  Apaches,  Comanches,  Navajos,  and  Utes.  Over 
two  hundred  of  his  relatives  have  been  killed 
by  Indians.  He  participated  in  more  than  one 
hundred  battles,  and  carried  a  scar  for  nearly 
every  one.  His  body  was  such  a  network  of 
ghastly  cicatrices  that  scarcely  could  you  lay  your 
flat  hand  anywhere  upon  him  without  touching  a 
scar.  For  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  it  seemed 
190 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  191 

that  the  heroic  soul  alone  held  up  the  tatters  of 
that  once  wiry  body.  While  yet  there  was  fight 
ing  to  be  done,  he  fought ;  but  when  the  swarming 
savages  had  all  been  crushed  into  submission,  and 
the  quiet  hero  retired  to  his  mountain  home  to 
enjoy  the  peace  so  bravely  earned,  peace  was  not 
for  him.  His  awful  wounds,  the  years  of  fright 
ful  exposure,  had  raised  up  against  him  a  foe  more 
merciless  than  the  Apache.  But  stoical  as  a  war 
rior  at  the  stake,  he  bore  his  years  of  deadly  torture 
as  he  had  borne  the  hardships  of  the  half-century 
that  made  his  name  a  terror  to  the  red  marauders 
of  the  Southwest;  and  when  at  seventy-four  the 
flickering  soul  went  out,  it  was  calmly  as  a  little 
child's. 

A  courtly  Spanish  gentleman,  brave  as  a  lion, 
tender  as  a  woman,  spotless  of  honor,  modest  as 
heroic,  was  this  haggard  old  man  whom  I  loved  as 
a  father.  He  would  seldom  speak  of  his  own 
achievements,  and  then  only  with  utmost  modesty. 
But  to  this  day,  in  my  roving  through  the  lonelier 
corners  of  New  Mexico,  I  keep  stumbling  upon 
some  old  man  who  was  his  companion-in-arms  ;  and 
when  I  speak  of  Manuel  Chaves,  what  a  brighten 
ing  there  is  of  old  eyes ! 

"El  Leoncito  (the  little  lion)!  Truly  I  knew 
him  —  Va  !  Were  we  not  side  by  side  at  Ojo  de 
la  Monica  ?  And  was  it  not  he  that  shot  down  the 
Apache  whose  knife  was  even  at  my  heart,  and  he 
shooting  with  an  arrow  through  and  through  his 


192  A  NEW  MEXICAN  EEEO. 

shoulder  ?  Ay  de  mi  I  that  there  are  no  more  like 
Don  Manuel ! " 

Then  I  am  sure  of  a  story  ;  and  so  from  time  to 
time,  and  all  across  the  Southwest,  I  have  been 
filling  in  the  modest  outlines  the  old  hero  occa 
sionally  gave  me. 

For  us  it  is  very  hard  to  realize  what  life  on  the 
New  Mexican  frontier  in  his  day  was.  There 
were  no  railroads  then  to  make  travel  easy  for 
even  the  timid  and  the  weak ;  nor  mails  to  bring 
far  friends  near ;  nor  telegraphs  to  flash  warning 
or  hope.  The  lonely  New  Mexicans,  shut  off 
from  the  civilization,  and  almost  from  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  East  by  a  vast  and  fearful  wilderness, 
were  surrounded  by  savage  nature  and  still  more 
savage  man.  It  was  one  of  the  bitterest  lands  on 
earth ;  a  land  of  vast  distances  and  scant  product, 
of  infinite  thirst  and  little  wherewith  to  quench  it ; 
a  land  of  hardship  eternal  and  daily  danger,  where 
boys  were  soldiers  and  mothers  had  to  fight  for 
their  babes.  It  was  almost  as  if  there  had  been  no 
other  world  beyond  those  awful  plains.  What 
ever  was  consumed  was  made  at  home.  There 
was  no  market.  They  had  no  rifles  nor  pistols  for 
defence  against  the  relentless  savages,  and  little 
enough  of  any  other  armament.  There  was  but  a 
scant  supply  of  the  clumsy  Spanish  escopetas  (flint 
lock  muskets),  scarcely  better  weapons  than  the 
bows  and  arrows  whose  use  the  settlers  learned 
from  their  enemies.  Manuel  was  in  his  early 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO.  193 

manhood  a  wonderfully  expert  archer,  and  won 
countless  blankets  and  ponies  from  the  Indians  in 
trials  of  prowess  during  the  short  intervals  of 
peace.  Later  he  became  the  most  wonderful  rifle 
shot  New  Mexico  has  ever  produced. 

Hemmed  in  by  ruthless  foes,  the  weak,  scattered 
towns  had  practically  no  military  protection,  for 
that  was  before  New  Mexico  had  become  part  of 
the  United  States.  It  was  then  a  province  ruled 
by  a  governor  sent  up  from  Mother  Mexico ;  a 
governor  who  swayed  over  his  few  countrymen  the 
iron  rule  of  a  czar,  but  four-fifths  of  whose  nomi 
nal  subjects  were  hostile  savages. 

Manuel  Chaves  came  of  a  fine  old  family  of 
Valencia,  Spain,  whose  earliest  traced  represent 
ative,  Don  Fernando  Duran,  acquired  the  title 
of  de  Chaves.  Manuel's  great-grandfather,  Don 
Diego  Antonio  Duran  de  Chaves,  was  a  colonel 
in  the  Spanish  army,  and  in  company  with  Don 
Jose*  Hurtado  de  Mendoza  led  a  colony  to  this 
New  World  over  two  hundred  years  ago  and 
founded  Atrisco,  just  across  the  Rio  Grande  from 
where  Albuquerque  now  stands,  having  a  grant 
from  the  Spanish  government.  They  were  there 
when  the  bloody  Pueblo  uprising  of  1680  took 
place,  and  were  driven  to  El  Paso,  but  later  re 
turned  and  took  possession  of  their  lands.  Here 
in  Atrisco  Manuel  was  born  in  October,  1818. 
There  was  then  no  forecast  of  the  present  bustling 
town  of  Albuquerque,  save  the  old  fortress  erected 


194  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

over  one  hundred  years  before  by  the  Spanish 
Duke  of  Albuquerque.  When  Manuel  was  very 
young,  the  family  moved  to  Cebolleta,  on  the 
eastern  slope  of  Mount  San  Mateo.  This,  the  first 
colony  in  the  Navajo  country,  was  founded  in  1800 
by  thirty  heads  of  families  from  the  Rio  Grande. 
The  youngest  of  the  Spanish  colonies,  and  sixty 
miles  westward  of  any  of  them,  it  soon  made  up 
in  experience  what  it  lacked  in  age.  For  over 
half  a  century  the  tiny  walled  hamlet  was  never 
at  peace.  For  the  first  five  years  of  its  existence 
it  was  almost  constantly  besieged ;  at  one  time,  in 
1804,  by  over  five  thousand  Navajo  warriors. 
Heavy  odds,  truly,  for  the  thirty  men  of  Cebolleta 
and  the  brave  women  of  their  households!  In 
1805  the  colonists  abandoned  their  town  and 
started  for  the  Rio  Grande.  At  Laguna  they  re 
ceived  word  from  Governor  Chacon  to  return,  and 
he  would  send  fifty  soldiers  to  protect  them.  The 
soldiers  formed  thenceforth  part  of  the  colony,  till 
one  by  one  they  were  laid  away  in  the  little  grave 
yard,  sieved  with  Navajo  arrows. 

A  stout  stone  wall,  ten  feet  high,  enclosed  the 
whole  of  the  tiny  town,  the  houses  being  built  con 
tinuously  along  its  inside.  The  only  entrance  was 
closed  by  a  narrow  gate  formed  of  planks  two  feet 
thick,  hewn  from  two  mammoth  pines,  and  fastened 
by  a  ponderous  bar.  Despite  this  fortification  — 
a  remarkably  strong  one  for  those  days  —  the 
Indians  persisted  in  their  attacks.  In  the  great 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  195 

siege  to  which  I  have  alluded,  the  Navajos,  besides 
their  usual  armament  of  bows,  arrows,  shields,  and 
lances,  had  prepared  ajid  brought  two  thousand 
aboriginal  hand  grenades  of  pitch,  with  which  to 
fire  the  town.  The  siege  was  a  long  and  desperate 
one.  The  men  of  the  town  were  kept  on  the  alert, 
extinguishing  the  dangerous  fire-balls  and  checking 
the  constant  assaults  of  their  swarming  foes,  while 
the  brave  women  were  equally  busy  bringing  water 
and  food  to  the  loopholes  at  which  their  husbands 
were  stationed,  binding  up  their  wounds,  and  doing 
other  necessary  offices. 

Indeed,  one  of  the  most  heroic  and  important 
exploits  of  this  siege  was  performed  by  a  woman, 
Dona  Antonia  Romero.  The  assault  had  become 
terrific,  and  to  feed  the  fainting  men  more  quickly 
and  safely,  she  had  taken  an  axe  and  cut  through 
the  adobe  partitions  from  house  to  house.  Then 
mounting  to  a  housetop  to  see  if  all  was  going 
well,  she  was  horrified  to  see  that  a  brave  Navajo 
had  stealthily  climbed  over  the  gate,  and  was  just 
removing  the  ponderous  bar,  while  a  swarm  of  his 
companions  waited  outside  to  rush  in  the  instant 
the  heavy  gate  should  swing  open.  There  was  no 
time  to  call  for  help.  Quick  as  a  flash,  the  heroic 
woman  caught  up  a  fifty  pound  metate  (the  native 
stone  hand-mill),  which  was  lying  upon  the  roof, 
swung  it  above  her  head,  and  brought  it  down  with 
terrific  force  full  upon  the  skull  of  the  Navajo,  who 
was  too  busy  to  notice  what  was  going  on  above 


196  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

him.  His  head  was  crushed  like  an  eggshell,  and 
again  the  town  was  saved.  Dona  Antonia's  hus 
band,  Don  Domingo  Baca,  was  worthy  so  plucky  a 
spouse.  In  one  assault,  at  hand-to-hand  combat,  he 
was  pierced  by  seven  lances,  and  his  abdomen  was 
so  torn  that  his  bowels  fell  out.  He  caught  up  a 
pillow,  lashed  it  around  his  belly,  and  continued 
loading  and  firing  for  several  hours,  until  the  fury 
of  the  attack  was  spent.  He  then  replaced  his 
dangling  entrails  and  sewed  up  the  wound  him 
self.  He  lived  for  many  years.  At  one  time, 
during  this  siege,  the  Indians  made  a  breach  in  the 
wall  at  night,  and  one  hundred  of  them  got  into 
the  placita  (inner  court) .  The  breach  was  stopped, 
however,  and  the  intruders  were  killed  from  the 
surrounding  houses.  The  colonists  fortunately 
had  sixty  venerable  Spanish  flintlocks,  which  saved 
them  from  the  overwhelming  numbers  of  the 
savages.  The  Navajos  finally  gave  up  the  siege, 
which  had  been  disastrous  to  both  sides,  but  never 
ceased  their  desultory  warfare.  Despite  its  fearful 
besetments  the  little  colony  kept  alive,  and  became 
famous  throughout  the  Territory  for  its  heroic 
warriors.  They  were  the  flower  of  New  Mexico. 

And  so  Cebolleta  struggled  on  till  1850,  when 
it  received  the  most  stunning  blow  it  has  ever 
known.  Pedro  Chaves  (oldest  brother  of  Manuel) 
used  to  go  to  the  Rio  Grande  settlements,  and  take 
contracts  from  those  in  need  of  domestic  "help," 
to  furnish  them  Navajo  girls  at  five  hundred  dollars 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  197 

per  head.  Then  he  would  get  his  fellow-Cebolle- 
tans  together,  and  they  would  start  out  on  a  cam 
paign,  strike  a  band  of  hostile  Navajos,  kill  the 
warriors,  and  bring  the  women  and  children  home 
for  servants.  The  rivalry  among  the  young  men 
to  prove  their  courage  led  to  exploits  no  whit  be 
hind  the  doughtiest  of  chivalric  deeds.  It  was  no 
uncommon  thing  for  a  young  Cebolletan  to  spur 
ahead  of  the  company,  seize  a  Navajo  warrior  by 
the  hair,  and  try  to  drag  him  from  his  horse  and 
bring  him  back  alive  —  a  recklessness  which  some 
times  succeeded. 

In  January,  1850,  Don  Ramon  Luna  was  return 
ing  from  a  big  campaign  against  the  Navajos,  at  the 
head  of  about  one  thousand  New  Mexican  volun 
teers.  The  weather  was  fearfully  cold  and  it  was 
snowing  heavily.  Colonel  Luna  encamped  at  Los 
Alamitos  (now  Grant's  Station,  on  the  Atlantic 
and  Pacific  Railroad),  giving  orders  that  his  men 
should  keep  close  together,  as  the  Navajos  were 
hanging  on  their  flanks.  Captain  Pedro  Chaves, 
however,  was  a  very  headstrong  fellow,  and  he  and 
his  thirty  men  being  in  a  hurry  to  get  home  to 
Cebolleta,  they  quietly  left  the  command  at  night 
fall  and  rode  thirty-five  miles  north.  They  camped 
late  in  the  beautiful  canon  at  San  Miguel  and 
played  games  till  nearly  daybreak.  No  sooner  had 
they  fallen  asleep  than  three  hundred  Indians  fell 
upon  them  and  massacred  them  to  a  man,  but  only 
after  a  desperate  resistance,  in  which  many  Indians 


198  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

fell.  Jos6  Manuel  Arragon  survived  his  wounds 
eleven  days,  and  had  been  dead  but  a  few  minutes 
when  a  searching  party  from  Cebolleta  reached  the 
spot.  Captain  Chaves'  head  was  found  on  top  of 
the  mountain.  His  white-haired  widow  still  lives 
in  San  Mateo. 

In  Cebolleta  young  Manuel  lived  until  he  was 
eighteen,  sharing  the  hardships  of  his  elders ;  and 
then  began,  so  far  as  we  have  record,  his  roving. 
That  year,  in  company  with  his  elder  brother  Jose*, 
and  fourteen  other  young  men,  including  an  Indian 
boy  named  Pahe,  he  started  for  Canon  de  Chusca, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  west,  to  trade  with  the 
Navajos,  who  were  just  then  resting  on  their  arms. 
What  a  commentary  on  the  times  in  which  they 
lived  —  this  seeking  a  market  in  the  very  strong 
hold  of  the  savages  from  whose  attacks  they  were 
not  safe  even  at  home ! 

The  little  party  had  several  pack-mules  loaded 
with  goods,  and  was  armed  with  bows  and  arrows 
and  the  clumsy  old  Spanish  flintlocks.  Reaching 
Canon  de  Chusca,  they  were  amicably  received, 
unpacked  their  goods,  and  camped  among  the 
Indians.  In  the  night  the  treacherous  savages 
fell  upon  them,  and,  after  a  fierce  fight,  killed  all 
but  Don  Manuel  and  Pahe.  The  latter  received 
an  ugly  arrow-wound  over  the  left  nipple,  but 
escaped  further  injury  by  hiding  behind  a  rock. 
Manuel  had  been  left  by  the  Indians  as  dead,  with 
seven  arrows  sticking  in  his  body.  The  cold  night 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO.  199 

air,  however,  finally  revived  him;  and,  crawling 
about  the  bloody  field,  he  found  Pahe  living,  and 
the  corpses  of  all  the  rest.  Eighteen  dead  Indians 
attested  the  resistance  of  the  little  band.  Having 
wrapped  his  brother's  corpse  in  a  blanket,  and 
buried  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  canon,  Manuel  took 
his  bow  and  musket,  and,  with  Pahe,  started  on 
the  fearful  journey  homeward  on  foot.  It  was  in 
July,  and  fearfully  hot.  After  two  days  and 
nights  they  reached  Ojo  del  Oso,  the  beautiful 
spring  where  Fort  Wingate  now  stands.  Here 
Manuel  stripped  off  his  clothes,  stiff  with  blood, 
and,  jumping  into  the  cold  spring,  washed  his 
wounds  till  they  bled  anew,  afterward  washing 
and  drying  his  clothes.  Pahe  would  not  wash, 
but  plugged  his  wound  with  the  soft  film  from  the 
inner  side  of  a  buckskin.  In  the  morning  when 
Manuel  awoke  somewhat  refreshed,  he  found  his 
companion  dead  and  fearfully  swollen.  Burying 
the  boy  beside  the  spring,  the  brave  young  trader 
resumed  his  agonizing  journey,  travelling  only  by 
night,  as  the  country  was  now  infested  by  Navajos. 
The  ninety  miles  to  Cebolleta  took  him  three 
nights.  He  passed  through  what  is  now  San 
Mateo,  and  rested  all  day  under  two  fine  live 
oaks,  in  whose  gratefully  remembered  shade  he 
later  built  the  little  chapel  in  which  his  family  now 
worship.  At  Laguno  Larga,  on  the  mountain,  he 
fell  exhausted  and  unable  to  go  any  further.  He 
had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  leaving  Chusca,  save 


200  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

the  pulpy  leaves  of  the  prickly  pear,  and  his  seven 
wounds  were  bleeding  again.  A  hungry  coyote 
had  followed  his  bleeding  footsteps  now  for  two 
whole  days.  Here  he  was  found  by  a  faithful 
Indian  servant,  who  made  a  rough  chair  of  oak 
boughs,  and  carried  him  safely  to  Cebolleta  on  his 
back. 

Among  his  companions  on  this  fatal  expedition 
were  two  blacksmiths,  Ramon  Sena  of  Santa  Fe*? 
and  Jose*  Castillo  of  Cebolleta.  He  had  left  them 
at  the  Tiogan  of  Chief  Chatto  to  make  silver  bridle 
ornaments,  and  supposed  they  had  been  massacred 
too.  Head  Chief  Manuelito,  however,  sent  them 
safely  home  with  an  escort  of  eighteen  young 
braves,  who  slept  in  the  house  of  Manuel's  mother. 
His  eldest  brother,  Pedro,  prepared  to  have  them 
killed  in  their  sleep,  but  Manuel  secretly  rose  from 
his  sick  bed,  armed  the  Navajos  with  muskets,  and 
then  told  Pedro  to  let  them  alone.  Next  day 
Manuel  gathered  volunteers,  who  escorted  the 
Navajos  half  way  home. 

Recovering  from  his  wounds,  young  Chaves 
went  to  visit  his  grandmother  at  Atrisco.  At  that 
juncture  a  party  of  German  traders,  with  six  hun 
dred  burros  and  many  horses  and  mules,  came  up 
from  Sonora  on  their  way  to  New  Orleans.  They 
engaged  Manuel  as  their  major-domo,1  and  hired 
fourteen  other  young  New  Mexicans  to  care  for  the 

1  Overseer. 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  201 

animals  under  his  charge.  Among  them  was  Man 
uel's  younger  brother,  Juan.  Near  New  Orleans 
the  traders  leased  a  large  plantation,  and  left  the 
animals  there  in  charge  of  Manuel  all  winter.  In 
the  spring  they  sold  all  their  burros  at  one  hundred 
dollars  per  head,  and  gave  up  the  plantation.  The 
rest  of  the  boys  returned  to  New  Mexico;  but 
Manuel  and  his  brother  remained.  They  had  met 
a  handsome  and  brilliant  young  Cuban  named 
Alfonso  Fernandez,  who,  knowing  that  Manuel 
had  several  hundred  dollars,  proposed  that  they 
go  to  St.  Louis  and  open  a  fruit  store.  They  did 
so,  and  for  two  years  had  a  prosperous  business, 
Manuel  making  trips  to  New  Orleans  for  fruit. 
The  firm  was  several  thousand  dollars  ahead,  Juan 
was  put  to  school,  and  all  was  going  well.  But 
during  one  of  Manuel's  trips  to  New  Orleans,  Fer 
nandez  took  all  the  money,  sold  the  stock,  and 
fled.  When  Manuel  returned  and  learned  of  this, 
he  vowed  to  follow  and  punish  his  faithless  partner. 
He  sold  his  cargo  of  fruit  for  what  he  could  get, 
and  secured  Juan  a  position  in  the  store  of  Senor 
Navarrez,  then  a  wealthy  old  Spanish  merchant  of 
St.  Louis,  and  a  warm  friend  of  Manuel's.  Juan 
subsequently  married  a  daughter  of  Navarrez,  and 
a  few  years  later  was  drowned  in  the  Mississippi. 

Manuel  followed  the  trail  of  Fernandez  to  New 
York,  but  arrived  there  just  too  late.  Fernandez 
had  sailed  the  day  before  for  Havana,  and  Manuel 
had  no  money  left  to  follow  him.  So  he  worked 


202  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

his  way  back  to  St.  Louis,  suffering  many  hard 
ships.  A  big  wagon-train,  principally  owned  by 
Ambrosio  Armijo  and  Jose*  Chaves,  was  on  the 
point  of  starting  for  Santa  Fe*,  and  with  it  he  re 
turned  to  New  Mexico. 

Manuel  now  settled  in  Santa  Fe*,  and  devoted 
himself  to  raising  blooded  horses.  He  was  con 
ceded  to  be  the  best  rider  in  all  this  territory  of 
superb  horsemen. 

Soon  after  his  marriage  to  a  dark-eyed  belle  of 
Tome,  Manuel  became  involved  in  a  difficulty  with 
his  great-uncle,  the  Spanish  Governor  Armijo,  and 
had  to  flee  to  Utah,  where  he  remained  with  a 
band  of  French  trappers  for  some  time.  Then 
the  Utes  became  so  troublesome  that  Armijo  sent 
Manuel  a  pardon,  and  requested  him  to  come  back 
and  lead  an  expedition  against  the  Indians,  which 
he  did  with  notable  success.  Returning  from  the 
campaign,  he  sold  his  fast  horses,  and  took  con 
tracts  from  the  Mexican  government.  At  about 
this  time  the  party  of  Americans  led  by  "  General " 
Cook  reached  New  Mexico,  and  acting  under  or 
ders  from  Armijo,  Chaves  enrolled  one  hundred 
volunteers  and  arrested  the  whole  outfit  at  Anton 
Chico,  on  the  Pecos,  thirty  miles  from  Las  Vegas. 
Armijo  subsequently  sent  these  prisoners  to  the 
city  of  Mexico  in  charge  of  a  Captain  Salazar,  who 
treated  them  very  cruelly.  They  were  finally  re 
leased  from  their  Mexican  prison  and  made  their 
way  home. 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  203 

Then  came  the  Mexican  War  and  the  invasion  of 
New  Mexico  by  General  Price  and  the  American 
army.  Governor  Armijo  had  six  hundred  Mexi 
can  dragoons,  regulars,  in  Santa  F£,  and,  after  a 
conference  with  the  Chaveses,  the  Bacas,  the 
Pinos,  and  other  leading  men  of  the  Territory, 
raised  an  army  of  one  thousand  volunteers,  Don 
Manuel  being  put  in  command.  The  combined 
forces  started  put  to  meet  the  invaders;  but  at 
Glorieta,  Armijo  concluded  that  he  didn't  need 
the  volunteers,  but  would  take  the  Gringoes  and 
the  glory  himself  with  his  dragoons.  So  he  dis 
banded  the  volunteers  and  sent  them  all  home. 
Before  General  Price  reached  Glorieta,  Armijo 
weakened,  and  incontinently  fled  to  Old  Mexico 
with  his  dragoons.  Price  marched  into  Santa  F6 
without  firing  a  shot,  and  took  possession  in  the 
name  of  the  United  States.  He  issued  a  procla 
mation  telling  the  people  that  they  would  be  pro 
tected  in  their  persons  and  property  if  they  would 
give  their  allegiance  to  the  new  government ;  and, 
glad  to  be  rid  of  the  insufferable  despotism  of 
Armijo,  the  people  readily  acquiesced. 

All  went  smoothly  till  malignant  fellows  told 
Price  that  the  Pinos  of  Santa  F6,  the  Chaveses 
and  Bacas  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and  all  the  priests  in 
the  Territory  were  plotting  an  insurrection  in 
which  every  American  was  to  be  assassinated,  and 
that  Manuel  Chaves  was  to  kill  Price  himself. 
Price  at  once  put  Don  Manuel,  Don  Nicolas  Pino, 


204  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

Don  Miguel  Pino,  and  other  prominent  men  under 
arrest.  The  Bacas  fled  to  Old  Mexico  along  with 
Don  Diego  Archuleta  of  Rio  Arriba,  who  had 
been  New  Mexico's  delegate  to  the  Mexican  Con 
gress.  All  were  soon  released  save  Don  Manuel 
and  Nicolas  Pino,  who  were  kept  in  jail  thirty 
days.  Don  Manuel  was  finally  court-martialed, 
but  there  was  not  the  remotest  evidence  against 
him,  and  his  manly  defence  won  the  admiration  of 
General  Price,  who  was  ever  after  his  warm  friend. 
A  few  days  after  his  release  came  the  revolution 
at  Taos,  in  which  Governor  Bent,  Kit  Carson's 
friend,  was  killed.  Having  learned  of  Don  Man 
uel's  prowess  as  an  Indian  fighter,  General  Price 
requested  him  to  assist  in  putting  down  the  re 
bellion.  Accordingly,  Senor  Chaves  and  Don 
Nicolas  Pino  enlisted  in  the  company  of  Captain 
Zeran  St.  Vrain,  and  marched  to  Taos.  The  rebels 
and  their  Apache  allies  were  routed  after  a  fearful 
struggle,  during  which  Don  Manuel  laid  the  foun 
dation  for  one  of  the  warmest  friendships  of  his 
life.  He  and  St.  Vrain  —  who  was  a  magnificent 
two  hundred  and  forty-pounder  —  became  sepa 
rated  a  little  from  the  command,  and  were  fighting 
almost  side  by  side  to  drive  off  a  party  of  Indians 
approaching  in  front.  Suddenly  a  gigantic  Apache 
sprang  from  behind  a  bush,  struck  St.  Vrain's 
rifle  from  his  hand,  and  grappled  him  in  mortal 
combat.  St.  Vrain  was  stronger  than  the  Indian, 
but  no  match  for  him  in  quickness  or  endurance ; 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  205 

and  when  Chaves  turned  his  eye  an  instant  from 
the  advancing  foe,  he  was  horrified  to  see  the 
American  at  the  last  gasp  of  exhaustion,  while  the 
Apache  was  just  lifting  his  murderous  knife. 
Cool,  as  always,  Chaves  put  a  ball  through  the 
heart  of  an  advancing  Indian,  and,  whirling  like 
lightning,  brought  the  ponderous  barrel  of  his  old 
Hawkins  rifle  down  upon  the  head  of  the  Apache 
with  such  force  that  his  eyes  bulged  from  their  sock 
ets  as  he  rolled  over  dead,  without  a  groan.  "  In 
less  than  a  second,"  St.  Vrain  used  to  say,  "that 
knife  would  have  been  in  my  heart."  St.  Vrain 
afterward  bought  from  the  grantees  that  four-mil 
lion-acre  tract  on  the  Animas  River,  Colorado, 
known  as  the  St.  Vrain  grant.  He  never  forgot 
his  preserver,  and  offered  him  a  half-ownership  in 
the  grant  if  he  would  settle  there  —  an  offer  which 
Mr.  Chaves  felt  obliged  to  decline. 

A  long  and  bloody  series  of  Indian  campaigns 
followed,  in  which  Don  Manuel  played  a  promi 
nent  part.  In  1855,  as  colonel  of  a  regiment  of 
volunteers,  he  made  a  six  months'  campaign  against 
the  Utes,  punishing  them  fearfully,  and  winning 
recognition  from  the  War  Department  for  distin 
guished  bravery.  In  1857  came  the  fearful  out 
break  of  Cuchillo  Negro,  the  most  terrible  of  all 
Apaches.  The  renegades  were  smearing  the  whole 
south  of  the  Territory  with  blood,  and  General 
Loring  —  subsequently  of  the  Confederate  army, 
and  still  later  " Loring  Pasha"  of  Egypt  —  was 


206  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO. 

sent  out  with  two  hundred  regular  troops  to  quell, 
them.  With  his  command  was  Colonel  Chaves, 
as  captain  of  sixty  Mexican  volunteers.  They 
followed  the  Apaches  clear  into  the  Sierra  Madre 
of  Mexico  —  the  more  recent  scene  of  the  brilliant 
campaigns  of  General  Crook  and  General  Miles 
against  Geronimo.  They  had  many  hard  fights 
on  the  way,  but  no  decisive  ones ;  and  the  men, 
worn  out  by  the  terrific  speed  of  the  Indians,  were 
grumbling  sorely.  General  Loring,  one  night,  was 
about  to  call  a  final  halt  to  the  chase ;  but  Colonel 
Chaves,  whose  company  embraced  many  of  the 
finest  trailers  in  New  Mexico,  assured  him  that  the 
enemy  were  not  far  ahead.  That  very  evening 
trailers  found  the  hostile  camp  at  the  bottom  of  a 
deep  canon,  and  reported  to  Colonel  Chaves,  who 
in  turn  notified  General  Loring.  Acting  on 
Chaves's  advice,  the  command  was  allowed  a  few 
hours'  sleep,  and  then  moved  noiselessly  upon  the 
foe.  One  company  was  sent  to  the  mouth  of  the 
canon,  another  to  its  head,  and  the  sixty  volun 
teers,  with  General  Loring  and  Colonel  Chaves  in 
the  lead,  stole  down  the  precipitous  side  and  took 
the  Apaches  completely  by  surprise.  Colonel 
Chaves  captured  Cuchillo  Negro,  whom  he  knew 
well,  with  his  own  hand,  and  General  Loring 
put  the  precious  prisoner  in  charge  of  Cap 
tain  "  Adobe  "  Johnson,  with  strict  orders  not  to 
harm  a  hair  of  his  head.  Loring  wished  to  send 
the  famous  chief  to  Washington,  but  when  they 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  207 

returned  from  pursuing  the  hostiles,  Johnson  had 
wantonly  slain  his  prisoner.  Johnson  afterward 
became  a  terror  to  the  whole  lower  country,  being 
a  violent  and  unprincipled  man.  He  was  shot 
dead  in  a  drunken  brawl  in  Hillsboro,  New  Mexico, 
two  or  three  years  ago.  This  campaign  settled 
the  Apache  question  for  awhile.  The  War  De 
partment  again  issued  very  complimentary  orders, 
in  which  Manuel  Chaves  was  named  for  conspicu 
ous  services. 

Don  Manuel  now  removed  to  Ojuelos,  eighteen 
miles  east  of  Los  Lunas,  and  started  a  sheep  ranch 
in  company  with  his  brother-in-law,  the  well-known 
Lorenzo  Labadie.  Here  he  had  many  savage  en 
counters  with  the  Indians.  In  1859  the  Navajos 
became  again  such  a  fearful  scourge  to  the  whole 
Territory  that  prominent  citizens  convened  in 
Bernalillo,  and  raised  funds  to  equip  five  hundred 
volunteers,  who  marched  with  Colonel  Chaves  in 
command,  at  the  same  time  that  General  Canby 
started  with  four  hundred  regulars.  The  cam 
paign  lasted  several  months,  and  completely 
quieted  the  Navajos  for  the  time  being.  In  it, 
too,  Colonel  Chaves  won  fresh  honors. 

Roman  A.  Baca,  the  brilliant  young  half-brother 
whom  Colonel  Chaves  had  reared,  was  eighteen 
years  old  when  he  accompanied  the  colonel  in 
this  Indian  campaign  as  a  common  volunteer.  He 
was  ambitious  to  be  a  captain,  but  did  not  wish  it 
to  be  said  that  he  was  promoted  because  of  his 


208  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

relationship.  Just  at  the  opening  of  a  fierce  fight 
he  said  to  Colonel  Chaves :  — 

"  Tell  me  something  to  do  to  earn  a  captaincy." 

A  big  Navajo  was  riding  just  ahead  of  his  fel 
lows,  waving  a  red  blanket  and  defying  the  New 
Mexicans. 

"  Do  you  see  that  Indian  ?  "  said  Colonel  Chaves. 
"  Bring  me  his  scalp  and  I  will  make  you  a  captain. 
Come  back  without  it  and  I  will  kill  you." 

Roman  leaped  upon  his  fine  horse  —  he  was  then 
the  finest  rider  in  all  New  Mexico  —  and  dashed 
out  to  meet  the  big  Indian,  who  also  spurred  up 
to  the  charge.  As  they  drew  close  the  Indian 
fired,  but  missed,  and  Roman  put  a  bullet  through 
his  heart.  Tearing  the  bleeding  scalp  from  its 
place  he  rode  back  amid  a  rain  of  bullets  and 
arrows  and  was  appointed  a  captain  on  the  spot. 

Roman  was  in  command  of  twenty  New  Mexi 
can  trailers  and  guides,  and  at  Cienega  Amarilla 
captured  a  Navajo  and  took  him  to  his  tent. 
Canby  heard  of  this  and  ordered  that  the  prisoner 
be  sent  to  his  tent. 

"  Tell  General  Canby  for  me,"  said  young  Baca, 
"  that  if  he  wants  a  Navajo  he  had  better  go  and 
catch  one,  as  I  did." 

And  forthwith  he  hung  the  Navajo  to  a  tree  in 
front  of  his  camp.  Canby  sent  a  lieutenant  and  a 
squad  to  arrest  the  audacious  chief  of  scouts ;  but 
Roman  picked  up  his  rifle  and  threatened  to  shoot 
if  they  came  any  nearer. 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.     .  209 

"  He  means  what  he  says,"  said  Colonel  Chaves 
warningly ;  and  the  lieutenant  went  back  to  Canby 
to  report.  As  Canby  had  only  four  hundred  regu 
lars,  and  the  volunteers  were  all  in  favor  of  Roman, 
the  arrest  was  wisely  given  up. 

In  1860  a  large  band  of  Navajos  swept  down  on 
the  Rio  Grande  settlements,  and  drove  off  fifty 
thousand  head  of  sheep.  Don  Manuel  was  sum 
moned  from  his  Ojuelos  rancho,  and  with  his 
half-brother  Roman  and  fourteen  picked  men,  fol 
lowed  the  raiders.  He  overtook  the  Navajos  at 
Ojo  de  la  Monica,  routed  them,  and  recovered  the 
sheep.  Next  morning  his  camp  was  entirely  sur 
rounded  by  hostiles.  Roman  had  stopped  at  Fort 
Craig  for  a  frolic,  promising  to  catch  up  next  day, 
but  he  failed  to  come.  From  sunrise  to  dark  the 
heroic  fifteen  fought  off  the  swarming  Navajos. 
Colonel  Chaves  had  posted  each  man  behind  a  tree, 
and  at  intervals  walked  from  one  to  another  to 
cheer  them  up.  It  was  the  deadliest  struggle  ever 
recorded  in  New  Mexico.  One  by  one  the  brave 
Mexicans  sank  transfixed  by  arrows.  One  daring 
Indian  on  a  fine  black  horse  was  conspicuous  all 
day,  rallying  his  companions  to  the  fight.  At  last, 
in  a  desperate  charge,  he  was  shot  dead  by  Colonel 
Chaves  within  twenty  feet.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  fight  the  colonel  had  eighty-two  bullets ;  at 
its  close  he  had  fired  eighty,  and  for  every  one  an 
Indian  or  a  horse  had  fallen.  He  never  fired  until 
dead  sure  of  killing.  His  own  escape  was  miracu- 


210  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO. 

lous,  especially  as  he  had  a  red  handkerchief  around 
his  neck  all  day,  being  too  hard  pressed  to  take  it 
off.  Jose*  Maria  Chaves,  at  his  side,  was  shot 
through  by  a  big  Indian  from  behind  a  log  fifty 
yards  away ;  but,  as  the  Indian  opened  his  mouth 
in  a  yell  of  joy,  Manuel  stopped  it  with  a  bullet 
that  carried  away  the  back  of  the  redskin's  head. 
At  nightfall  there  were  but  two  men  living,  Don 
Manuel  and  Roman  Sanchez,  and  both  fearfully 
wounded.  In  the  nick  of  time,  Roman  Baca  ar 
rived  from  Fort  Craig,  with  a  company  of  soldiers, 
and  rescued  the  two  survivors  of  that  desperate 
day.  The  sheep  were  all  recovered  and  returned 
to  their  owners. 

In  the  spring  of  1860  Colonel  Chaves  was  at 
his  lambing  camp  at  Salada,  forty  miles  east  of  the 
Rio  Grande,  when  an  excited  messenger  arrived 
from  Hon.  Francisco  Chaves  with  the  news  that 
two  hundred  raiding  Apaches  were  heading  that 
way.  Colonel  Chaves  had  forty  men,  including 
his  wife's  step-father  and  his  own  eldest  son,  Hon. 
Amado  Chaves,  then  a  boy  of  ten.  Not  at  all  dis 
turbed  by  this  gruesome  news,  which  frightened 
the  shepherds  out  of  their  seven  senses,  Colonel 
Chaves  saw  that  the  muskets  were  in  good  order, 
and  gave  the  necessary  directions.  No  alarm  came 
that  night,  and  the  New  Mexicans  slept  on  their 
arms.  Early  in  the  morning  a  shepherd  came  run 
ning  back  from  his  atajo l  saying  that  he  saw  the 
i  Flock. 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO.  211 

Apaches  coming.  Colonel  Chaves  rode  up  to  a 
little  knoll,  and  with  his  field-glass  counted  twenty- 
two  Indians  with  seventeen  rifles.  Returning  to 
camp,  he  told  the  men  that  there  were  but  twenty- 
two  Indians  in  sight,  but  that  the  whole  two  hun 
dred  were  doubtless  near,  and  they  must  be  prepared 
to  meet  them  all.  He  then  assigned  to  each  man 
the  tree  he  should  take  shelter  behind,  warned 
them  not  to  fire  till  the  Indians  were  within  fifty 
feet,  and  then  ordered  breakfast  to  be  prepared. 
There  had  been  a  holy  day  just  before,  and  his  wife 
had  sent  him  a  box  of  cakes  and  other  dainties. 
These  he  now  produced  and  distributed  to  the 
badly  scared  shepherds,  who  felt  little  appetite,  as 
they  could  plainly  see  the  murderous  Apaches 
rapidly  drawing  near.  Not  till  the  Indians  were 
within  five  hundred  yards  did  Colonel  Chaves 
allow  the  men  to  scatter  to  their  trees,  and  having 
seen  them  all  properly  stationed,  he  took  his  little 
boy  by  the  hand  and  ran  with  the  old  man  a  few 
rods  up  the  hill  to  his  own  tree. 

The  Apaches,  seeing  the  running,  made  a  rush 
for  the  camp.  Beside  the  fire  lay  Colonel  Chaves's 
valuable  silver  mounted  saddle  and  bridle  and  a 
gay  Navajo  blanket  of  great  price.  Two  Indians 
made  for  these,  and  just  as  one  had  got  the  blanket 
under  his  arm,  he  fell  sprawling  with  an  ounce  ball 
from  Chaves's  rifle  in  his  brain.  The  other  grabbed 
the  blanket  from  the  big  pot  of  atole,1  into  which 
1  A  sweet  gruel  of  ground  roasted  corn. 


212  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

it  had  fallen,  and  turned  to  run.  "Shoot  him, 
padre ! "  shouted  the  colonel  to  his  father-in-law ; 
but  when  he  saw  that  the  old  man  was  shaking 
with  fright,  he  said,  "Wait!  Don't  shoot!" 
Hastily  ramming  home  a  ball  in  his  own  rifle,  he 
threw  it  to  a  level,  and  the  second  Apache  fell 
with  a  red  hole  in  the  back  of  his  neck.  Colonel 
Chaves  had  tied  his  two  fine  horses  to  a  tree,  and 
put  two  of  his  best  men  behind  other  trees  twenty 
feet  away,  to  stop  the  Indians  who  should  rush  for 
the  horses.  To  his  disgust,  two  Apaches  took  the 
horses  without  a  shot.  The  explanation  of  this  is 
interesting.  Concepcion  "Baca"  (now  an  inter 
preter  for  Geronimo  in  Florida)  had  been  captured 
from  his  Sonora  home  in  boyhood  by  the  Apaches, 
and  had  been  raised  by  them  until  recaptured  by 
New  Mexicans  and  adopted  by  one  of  the  Baca 
family.  He  had  lain  behind  his  tree  awaiting  a 
chance  to  kill  the  two  Indians  who  were  coming 
for  the  horses ;  but  when  he  recognized  in  one  of 
them  the  same  cruel  old  Apache  who  had  raised 
him,  with  frequent  barbarous  beatings,  the  inbred 
boyhood  terror  came  back  to  him,  and  he  could  not 
pull  a  trigger  to  save  his  life.  Concepcion  is  a 
very  interesting  little  old  fellow,  with  whom  I 
have  passed  many  pleasant  hours.  The  two 
Apaches  who  took  the  horses  were  killed  by 
Colonel  Chaves,  and  their  scalps  were  taken  by  an 
Indian  shepherd.  A  few  years  later,  when  Amado 
was  sent  to  Washington  to  be  educated,  he  carried 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO.  213 

the  scalps,  bows,  shields,  and  lances  of  those  two 
Apaches  to  Colonel  Frank  Chaves,  who  gave  these 
interesting  relics  to  Reverdy  Johnson. 

All  Colonel  Chaves's  brothers  and  half-brothers 
were  brave  men.  Indeed,  they  could  not  well 
have  been  otherwise.  He  frequently  said  that  he 
would  kill  any  brother  of  his  who  should  play  the 
coward,  and  all  who  knew  him  knew  he  meant 
what  he  said.  It  is  related  that  on  one  occasion 
when,  with  only  eight  men,  he  was  in  a  desperate 
fight  with  scores  of  Navajos,  some  of  his  men 
wanted  to  run.  Colonel  Chaves  quietly  counted 
out  eight  of  his  twenty  bullets  and  put  them  in  a 
separate  pocket.  "  These,"  said  he,  "  are  for  those 
that  turn  coward."  Knowing  his  iron  resolution 
and  his  marvellous  aim,  no  one  dared  to  desert, 
and  the  Indians  were  stood  off  till  re-enforcements 
arrived. 

In  1864  Manuel's  warm  friend,  Don  Juan  Cris 
tobal  Armijo,  sent  his  son  to  Manuel's  ranch  with 
the  news  that  the  Apaches  had  stolen  two  hundred 
head  of  his  mules  and  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Manzano  Mountains.  He  and  a  party  were  pur 
suing,  but  feared  they  could  not  overtake  the  fugi 
tives  ere  they  reached  the  mountains.  Would 
Don  Manuel  gather  some  men  and  head  them  off  ? 
There  was  no  man  in  the  house  save  Manuel 
and  his  son-in-law,  then  lying  at  the  point  of 
death ;  but  Manuel  never  hesitated.  "  How  many 
Apaches  ?  "  he  asked  young  Armijo.  "  Twenty," 


214  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

was  the  reply.  "  Come  on,  then,  we'll  stop  them," 
said  Colonel  Chaves.  "  Not  much ;  I'm  no  fool," 
replied  the  youth.  Colonel  Chaves  saddled  his 
fleet  mare,  slung  his  heavy  rifle  along  the  saddle, 
and  galloped  out  at  right  angles  to  the  presumed 
course  of  the  Indians.  Coming  to  the  top  of  a 
timbered  hill,  he  saw  the  Apaches  coming  toward 
him;  while  some  twenty  miles  in  the  rear  his 
field-glass  showed  the  dust  of  the  pursuing  Mexi 
cans.  When  the  Indians  were  within  two  miles, 
he  rode  boldly  out  from  the  timber  into  the  prairie 
to  meet  them,  at  the  same  time  signalling  back  to 
the  trees.  The  bold  "  bluff  "  was  successful.  The 
Apaches,  never  dreaming  that  one  man  would 
have  the  audacity  to  face  twenty  of  them,  and 
believing  he  must  have  a  strong  force  at  his  back, 
scattered  to  the  mountains,  and  there  fortified 
themselves,  abandoning  the  stolen  stock.  In  has 
tening  home  to  his  sick  son-in-law,  Don  Manuel 
had  a  serious  mishap.  The  mare  fell  on  him, 
breaking  his  leg  so  badly  that  he  was  three  months 
in  bed.  He  remounted  and  rode  home,  however, 

In  1861  Don  Manuel  received  from  President 
Lincoln  his  commission  as  Lieutenant-Colonel  of 
the  Second  Regiment  New  Mexico  Volunteers,  of 
which  Miguel  Pino  was  colonel.  Moving  from 
their  first  station  at  Fort  Fauntleroy  (now  Win- 
gate),  the  regiment  reached  Valverde  just  before 
the  battle  there  with  the  rebels  under  Sibley. 
General  Roberts  was  driving  the  Confederates  till 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO.  215 

Canby  took  personal  command,  and  then  the 
Union  forces  were  routed.  The  rebels  started  up 
the  river  to  capture  Fort  Union,  the  most  impor 
tant  post  and  supply  depot  in  the  Territory.  Canby 
followed  them,  sending  Colonel  Chaves  with  fifty 
picked  men  to  get  ahead  of  the  enemy,  run  off 
stock,  and  destroy  supplies  —  a  programme  which 
he  brilliantly  carried  out.  His  force  swelling  to 
two  hundred  men,  he  kept  on  to  Fort  Union  and 
joined  Colonel  Chevington,  who  had  come  with 
his  gallant  regiment  of  Colorado  volunteers,  "  the 
Pike's  Peaks."  They  came  down  to  Glorieta  to 
meet  the  advancing  rebels,  and  in  the  narrow  pass 
of  Canoncito  gave  a  terrible  lesson  to  the  drunken 
invaders.  Colonel  Chaves  and  Captain  Lewis 
captured  the  rebel  battery  on  a  sharp  hill;  and 
then  in  a  gallant  dash  captured  and  fired  the 
whole  rebel  wagon  train,  destroying  all  their 
ammunition  and  provisions.  The  rebels  fled  in 
confusion,  and  their  stragglers  demoralized  an 
other  force  which  was  hard  pressing  General 
Slough  at  Glorieta,  a  few  miles  away.  The  eyes 
and  the  hearts  of  the  East  were  on  greater  battle 
fields  nearer  home;  and  to  this  day  few  realize 
how  much  was  meant  by  that  "little  fight"  which 
drove  Sibley  and  his  guerrillas  back  to  Texas,  and 
saved  New  Mexico,  Colorado,  Utah,  Arizona,  and 
California  to  the  Union. 

When  the  volunteers  disbanded,  Colonel  Chaves 
returned  to  his  Ojuelos  ranch,  only  to  find  that 


216  A  NEW  MEXICAN  HERO. 

the  Navajos  had  stolen  his  horses  and  his  thirty 
thousand  head  of  sheep,  and  left  him  penniless. 
His  claim  therefor  has  been  approved  by  Congress, 
and  his  great-grandchildren  may  get  the  money. 
He  then  moved  to  the  Pecos,  and  later  to  San 
Mateo,  where  he  ended  his  days.  For  more  than 
two  decades,  after  New  Mexico's  share  in  the  war 
of  the  Rebellion  was  over,  there  were  frequent 
Indian  outbreaks,  in  most  of  which  Colonel  Chaves 
was  a  prominent  figure. 

Ah,  what  a  rifle-shot  was  the  withered,  wiry  old 
man,  even  when  I  knew  him !  New  Mexico  has 
never  had  another  such  marksman  as  he  was  in 
his  prime ;  and  his  six-foot,  muzzle-loading  rifle,  of 
enormous  caliber,  was  never  excelled  by  the  finest 
modern  arms  that  tried  conclusions  with  it.  In  all 
his  long  life  —  in  nearly  fifty  years  of  which  never 
six  months  at  a  time  were  without  warfare  —  he 
never  was  known  to  miss  but  one  shot.  And 
never  did  he  have  to  shoot  twice  at  bear  or  deer  or 
mountain  lion,  and  seldom  more  than  once  at 
human  foes. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  mingled  amusement  and 
awe  at  an  incident  which  occurred  when  he  was 
seventy-two  years  old  and  suffering  fearfully  from  a 
cataract  in  his  eye.  We  were  out  with  his  grand 
son,  Rodolfo  Otero,  a  gallant  lad  and  an  admirable 
shot.  Rodolfo  had  a  fine  new  Winchester,  with 
which  he  was  doing  some  very  clever  shooting. 
"Try  it,  grandpa,"  he  kept  urging  the  worn  old 


A  NEW  MEXICAN  HEEO.  217 

man,  bent  and  wasted  by  disease.  He  had  never 
trusted  our  modern  magazine  guns,  but  at  last 
yielded  to  Rodolfo's  entreaties. 

"  Go  put  me  a  mark  on  yon  cedar,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  a  gnarled  tree  a  full  hundred  yards 
away.  Rodolfo  ran  over,  and  —  considerate  of  his 
grandfather's  age  and  condition  —  fastened  to  the 
tree  a  paper  some  six  inches  across. 

"  Va!"  cried  the  old  man,  calling  him  back. 
"What  thinkest  thou,  hijito?  That  I  am  as  the 
moles?  Here,  take  thou  this  bullet,  and  make 
me  its  mark  on  that  paper  ! " 

Rodolfo  did  so.  My  eyes  are  none  the  worst  in 
the  world,  but  /could  not  even  see  that  distant,  tiny 
dot.  Colonel  Chaves  raised  the  rifle  in  his  withered 
hands,  looked  painfully  at  the  fluttering  paper, 
threw  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  fired  —  all  in 
the  time  in  which  one  might  have  counted  five. 

"  Pues  !  "  he  said,  as  the  smoke  cleared.  "  Now 
it  sees  itself  better  ;  "  and  he  fired  again  with  the 
same  rapidity.  And  when  we  walked  up  to  the 
mark,  the  first  bullet  was  in  the  very  spot  Rodolfo 
had  marked,  and  the  second  so  close  beside  it  that 
the  flattened  bits  of  lead  touched ! 

Little  wonder  that  such  a  marksman,  as  cool  in 
mortal  danger  as  in  sport,  a  born  commander  and 
a  noble  man,  was  the  terror  of  the  savages,  and 
was  loved  and  is  mourned  by  those  he  helped  to 
defend. 


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